She Climbed a Tree
by my blue castle
Summary: Margaret Dashwood loves to climb trees, despite the fact that she's been told by her mother it's not proper for a young lady. One day she slips away from the house, and someone discovers her in a tree. Things are getting interesting, now! Chap 7 is up!
1. Chapter 1

Margaret's fingers held a pencil loosely, tapping it upon the wood of the desk in front of her. She sighed heavily and turned her face from the window once more. She squared her shoulders and set back to work on conjugating the French verbs that Elinor handed to her half an hour ago. "I shall finish them," she whispered to herself resolutely…only to rest her chin upon her hand and gaze out the window again.

"Margaret!" cried Elinor. She entered the room with hands planted upon her hips. Her younger sister jerked her head up in surprise, a flush starting up on her cheeks in embarrassment.

"Yes?" Margaret asked with a faint look of guilt on her face.

"Do you never assert yourself? Haven't I told you that your education is most important?" Elinor demanded.

"Yes," said Margaret, "many times…many times."

"Then why do you never finish the work I put before you?" Elinor stepped to the desk and looked at the half-filled paper of her sister's. "I should dearly like to know."

"I am able to work, Sister, but on such a fine day as today I can hardly put my mind to anything."

"If I recall even a sunny day could not keep you from your atlas when you were younger. What has happened?"

"If that atlas had been longer I would not be bemoaning the waste of such a day as this. It is geography that I have a passion for, not French. Where shall I ever use it? When I go to pay the French king a visit tomorrow? I think not."

"And what good is geography to you? Wouldn't you consider it just as useless?"

Margaret grinned and pointed her finger at her sister. "Not quite, for when I marry it will be to a traveler. He will hop from continent to continent taking me to India and Brazil. I should like to see the Nile."

"You have as much a chance as marrying a traveler as you would marry a rajah from your India."

"That's not true," said Margaret, standing up. "Amelia Thompson caught herself such a man who took her to Egypt…to Rome…and so many other places. If she can do it, then I'm sure I have just a good a chance as she."

"There's a difference, though, and you fail to see it, Margaret. Amelia is from a wealthy family, and you are not."

* * *

Looking to make sure her sister was not lurking behind her with more French verbs, Margaret scurried down the hall with shoes in hand and a bonnet crammed onto her disarrayed hair. In the kitchen she packed herself a snack of pears and two slices of sweet bread—they went into the pocket of the apron that Margaret wore.

"Freedom," Margaret said aloud to herself. She scampered down the front lawn and disappeared into a copse of trees that hid her from view of the house. She continued to make her way away from the house, making the distance between it and her bigger and bigger.

She stopped before a tree with a thick sturdy trunk and intertwining branches. It was perfect. She threw her bonnet ribbons over her shoulder and with a determined set to her jaw she put her boot in the first groove she could find. She hoisted herself up, throwing her arms as wide as she could around the tree. Bark scratched at her cheek and palms, crumbling in places aged by years of rain and hot sun.

Margaret moved her foot up once more, only to catch the hem of dress. The inevitable sound of a tear reached her ears. "Drat." She had told Mother that she would no longer climb trees, due to the numerous rips on her gowns. She would have to sew this one herself. Margaret didn't know why tree-climbing was so frowned upon by her sisters. It was grand to sit on a far out branch and to spread one's arms as if reading oneself to fly. She wasn't _too_ old for it.

Margaret grabbed the closest branch at hand and pulled herself onto it. She moved further out on it, dangling her legs and enjoying the space between her and the ground. She sighed, untying her bonnet and setting it beside her. The wind skittered across her face as she bit into a red-tinged pear. "Glorious," she breathed, watching the trees rustle against each other above her. "No more verbs for me today."

She sat in such a state, relishing the fresh air and foliage, for over an hour. Checking the position of the sun in the sky and the little watch in her pocket Margaret decided she would leave soon. Food was to be set outside for an afternoon luncheon at Sir John's, including, not only all varieties of sandwiches and punch, but neighbor's from all over. Elinor and Marianne and their husbands would be there so Margaret knew she was expected as well.

As she bit into a slice of sweet bread she heard something. She cupped her hand to her ear to get a better listen and something akin to a whistle could be heard. Someone had to be coming nearby. Margaret went still at the thought of Elinor coming to hunt her blood with a French text in hand, ready to throw it at her head. Margaret swung her legs back up onto the branch and managed to knock her bonnet to the grass, ribbons fluttering cruelly behind it. There was no time to fetch the article…unless she jumped from the tree. The image of her coming home with blood all over her and a broken ankle did not sit well with her. She would just have to chance it—maybe no one would come near it.

The whistle became closer and more audible; it wove through the trees in a haunting melody. Margaret grew entranced by the sound and did not notice when a person walked underneath her branch until it was too late. There was a young man kneeling down to pick her bonnet up. She 

clutched the tree in nervousness, hoping he would not look up. Please, please, begged Margaret silently. I will never climb another tree if he does not look up.

His red head twisted every which way but not up at her. Margaret sighed in relief as he began to walk away, still clutching her bonnet. She could explain it away easily enough. Thank heavens. She bit her tongue when she saw the man pause mid-step. He must have heard her! Margaret scooted closer to the center of the tree where the leaves could hide her better. A pear core dropped from her apron pocket and bounced mischievously to the ground. The young man looked up and caught sight of Margaret and his eyes widened.

"Is this yours?" he asked, coming forward to be almost directly underneath her. The shame of being caught in a tree was overwhelming her, and she could not find herself able to reply. "Miss?"

"That is mine," she finally managed to say. The man's eyebrow rose in curiosity and a grin played on his lips. He seemed to find the situation highly amusing. Drat him, said Margaret to herself.

"Would you like it back?" he asked. He held the bonnet towards her.

"If you would please leave it on the grass, Sir, then I'd be most appreciative." He set it where she directed…and he stayed put watching her in amusement. "You may leave now."

"But I must make sure you get off of the tree safely, Miss."

"I have no need for your assistance," she said primly.

"Then I shall leave you to your thoughts. Good day." He bowed and was off once more, whistling just as he had been doing earlier. Just before he disappeared Margaret could sudden laughter interrupting his whistling.

Margaret heaved a sigh of relief and as soon as he was completely out of sight she scrambled as quickly as she could down the tree. She stepped once more on her hem, and as a large rip formed Margaret lost her balance and tumbled the short distance back to the ground. "I'm in for it this time," she said worriedly to no one. She brushed off what she could of the mud on her rear, and she hurried back home.

Thankfully she was able to avoid Elinor who was in the parlor consulting with their mother on the price of sugar. Ever since Elinor had become mistress of her own home she had visited nearly every day to discuss housekeeping methods with their mother. They would sit for hours in the parlor with their heads together on the best way to economize with three yards less of fabric for re-upholstering a settee.

"Margaret!" Elinor called from down the stairs. "Are you ready yet?"

"Nearly!" replied Margaret. She looked wildly through her wardrobe and took a yellow dress off of its hook. She dragged it on and stuffed her ruined dress under the sheets on her bed, hoping that her mother would not discover it. After doing all the clasps that she could without any assistance, Margaret ran a comb through her hair and pulled it into a simple twist. She grabbed her bonnet and shoes suitable for a luncheon outside.

"Oh, Margaret, that color looks charming on you," her mother said. "But do you really want your hair so…so wild looking?"

"But it's not." Margaret went to the looking glass hanging in the parlor and she gasped. Her hair was climbing out of its twist. "It's a bit messy."

"A bit?" said Elinor. She came to Margaret's rescue and within a few minutes the damaged hair was in working order and was broaching on elegance.

"You've saved my hair, Elinor," Margaret said to her older sister as the rest of her dress was being clasped shut.

"Why can't you be like your other sisters, Margaret, and try to look your best? _You_ may not like these outings to the Middleton's, but Sir John did bring us to Barton Cottage. We don't want to make a bad impression for him to our neighbor's," her mother said. "You ought to give yourself more time to get ready." She patted the cap on her head, and smiled hesitantly in the looking glass. It was as if she was wondering whether she should go out looking so old next to her younger daughters.

Margaret made her way to Edward's carriage that waited outside. Elinor shared a secret smile with her husband as he handed her into the contraption. Margaret wondered if she would ever find anyone as fine as her brother-in-law to marry. He was such a gentleman. It was her turn to be handed in, and she earned an appraising look from Edward.

"You are looking pretty today, Margaret," he said.

"With my sunburned nose? I don't believe you," laughed Margaret.

"Especially your nose." Margaret giggled.

"If you had worn your bonnet on your little outing this morning then you wouldn't be complaining, Margaret," Elinor scolded.

"But it was so lovely in the tree—." Margaret snapped her mouth shut. She'd made her secret known.

"How many times must I tell you not to—," began Elinor, her eyes flashing at the lack of propriety her sister had sometimes.

"Elinor, dear, let's not talk of this now. We're to arrive at Sir John's in a few minutes. We'll want to be in the best of moods there, or else Mrs. Jennings will find out what all the to-do is about," Edward said. He placed a calming hand on his wife's arm. She settled back in her seat as the carriage started forward and glared once more at her sister. Margaret looked out the window, frowning. Elinor is hardly my mother, she complained in her head.

* * *

They arrived at Barton Park shortly after and were shown into the parlor where a maid was ready to take what wraps they did not need. After that they were lead to the back of the house where tables were set up laden with delicious cold meats and bowls of punch. Margaret stole a slice of apple pie and nibbled on it as her family wandered over to Sir John. He stood before a punch bowl and was helping himself to a drink.

"Ah! So wonderful to see you, Mrs. Dashwood. And you daughters! How lovely they look this fine afternoon. Miss Dashwood, I see you've a sun-touched face. Sitting in the sun again, were you?" said Sir John. He slurped up some punch and smacked his lips afterwards, sighing at how delicious it was.

"I could not help myself, Sir John," Margaret admitted. Elinor muttered about proper young ladies who actually wore their bonnets.

"Might I pour you some punch, Mrs. Dashwood?" he asked.

Margaret's mother looked startled. She'd been distracted by the cakes set out next to the punch. "Please do, Sir John. I would like that." She held her hands out in expectation and took the cup offered her. She took a tray of cake as well and led Margaret and Elinor to some lawn chairs set out in the shade.

"Where is Marianne?" asked Elinor, looking up from the plate that she and Edward were sharing.

Mrs. Jennings, who happened to be nearby, answered. "I was told they are bringing someone from London—some stuffy old fart who's related to Brandon." Margaret choked on her cucumber sandwich, and Elinor looked properly shocked. Mrs. Jennings was often frank with them, no matter how ill-mannered it made her seem.

"And this old fart? Who is he?" Margaret asked, earning herself a jab in the ribs by Elinor.

"I don't rightly know. I think your Marianne said he had something to do with law. I'll get it out of her whenever she decides to arrive," replied Mrs. Jennings. She winked at Margaret and went to greet the other guests as they arrived. Her laughter rang out suddenly and Mrs. Dashwood winced.

"I pray you will not turn out like our Mrs. Jennings, Mama," Elinor said. Edward snorted as he laughed at his wife's comment.

"I think you shall be safe, Mrs. Dashwood," he said.

"I am glad you think so, Edward," she replied. "I would not like to make such a spectacle of myself…though she does seem to enjoy herself."

"Ah, there's your sister," Sir John said. He pointed in the direction of the house, and he went off to meet them.

"Who's that with them?" wondered Elinor. She snuck a glance at Margaret. "He's hardly an old fart." Margaret giggled, wondering why Elinor was suddenly being so good-natured. Margaret looked more closely at the man that stood beside Colonel Brandon and his pretty wife.

Elinor was right—he didn't look old at all. In fact he was quite young. From what she could see of him he seemed rather well-off, with nicely tailored clothing and a clean-shaven face. His hair was red—his hair was red. He suddenly looked uncomfortably familiar, and Margaret's hand unconsciously drifted to her bonnet. She hadn't bothered changing switching hers, because she'd been in such a rush. She fervently hoped this "old fart" wasn't who she thought he was.


	2. Chapter 2

It was him. She could almost imagine her bonnet clutched in his hand, a smile upon his lips as he walked towards her. Their eyes met for a split second, and Margaret flicked hers away. He didn't even seem to notice her as he bowed over her mother's hand, murmuring his pleasure at meeting her and her daughters.

"Will you be staying at Delaford for long, Mr. Ivison?" Elinor asked him. Margaret blinked in surprise. She had been focused on looking away from the young man that she managed to miss his introduction. She snuck another glance at him.

"I am at his mercy, Mrs. Ferrars," he replied. "He may kick me out on the streets any day he chooses." Those who had gathered around to meet the new arrival laughed as he pulled a face in the direction of the Colonel.

Margaret observed the many admiring looks that the young women present were sending his way. _It can't be his hair_, Margaret said to herself, _for it's quite atrocious_. She had never seen such a shock of hair before; it seemed to draw light from the sun and store it just so it could shine brighter. Before Margaret allowed herself to admire it even one bit she turned quickly away to fetch herself another slice of pie.

She had always thought that climbing trees would lead her to peace, but this position she had put herself in was by no means comforting. She was worrying every second that he would recognize the ribbon ties or, worse yet, _her_. There was only one way to rid herself of the incriminating article.

She casually looked around her—she was nearly alone. And those close to her were thoroughly engrossed in their plates and with each other. "It's now or never, Margaret," she muttered, untying the ribbons as quickly as she could. Her fingers fumbled and her eyebrows rose in alarm as she heard someone bemoan the last bite of their dessert. They would soon be heading her way.

With her bonnet completely off she looked wildly about for somewhere to stash it for the time being—she would rescue it later. There! Beneath the branches of a potted tree it went. She sighed with relief. Now she could breathe easier.

She approached her family with her plate, biting into her own dessert. Mr. Ivison and Brandon were nowhere to be found. Elinor turned to see her youngest sister walking towards her. Her eyes went wide and she made a grab for her elbow. "Where is your bonnet, Margaret?" she nearly cried.

Margaret hadn't thought about it. "Well, you see…my head got warm so I took it off. And I put it in the carriage."

"I absolutely give up on trying to reform you," Elinor huffed.

"Good," Margaret replied perkily. She'd never have to where the blasted things again.

* * *

The luncheon dragged on for forty more minutes, and as it ended Edward sent for the carriage with a quick word to one of the servants. Nearly all of the guests were already gone, and Margaret's mother wished to reach home as quickly as possible. She had to get tea ready for the visit of an old school friend of hers who was to arrive in the hour. Just as Margaret put her arm out to be handed into the carriage she remembered she had left something behind.

"Where are you going Margaret?" cried Mrs. Dashwood as her daughter turned to leave. "We haven't any time to waste! Mrs. Filbee will be calling soon."

"But…I thought I left my bonnet here but it turns out I didn't," Margaret said. She avoided her sister's glare.

"If you aren't back in five minutes we are leaving without you." She nodded and ran to the potted tree. She reached beneath the leaves and her fingers met only cold dirt and a trunk. She scrabbled a little more in panic. _Perhaps this is the wrong one_, she thought. She went to the other pots and still there was no sign of her bonnet.

Margaret decided to leave it be for her family was sure to leave soon, and what was a bonnet to her? A bother—but oh the trouble she would given for it all! She strode towards the drive but was soon stopped by a figure stepping before her, blocking out the afternoon sun that shone in her eyes.

"Looking for this, Miss Dashwood?" Mr. Ivison asked innocently. There, hanging traitorously from his fingertips, was her bonnet.

"Yes, actually," she said, reaching for it only to have it snatched away.

"Are you sure?" he asked, shifting on his feet as he contemplated her face.

"Yes!" She reached for it once more, and her fingers met again with empty air. "Please, Mr. Ivison!" Was this some kind of joke to him? Margaret didn't find it funny at all—in fact it was quite painful to her.

"You see, I met a strange young lady earlier today with this _exact same bonnet_. I don't think this is yours—you aren't telling the truth."

"I wouldn't dare to lie."

"It is rather exquisite…." He ran his fingers over the embroidery that was coming loose from the sides.

"Hardly. It's shabby on the ends of the ribbons—see?" Margaret pointed it out. "And the straw is starting to unravel."

"Then why would you want it so badly?" Mr. Ivison narrowed his eyes in amusement as Margaret's mouth dropped in amazement. Was this really happening to her?

"Because it's mine!" she cried out, finally letting loose her frustration. She even stamped her foot. "How dare you be so insolent? We neither of us know each other and here you are playing with me so! Hand me my bonnet, or I shall get very angry."

"You would have gotten it sooner had you asked for it nicely."

"I did." Margaret folded her arms to her chest, nearly shaking. She had to keep them still or else she would soon have them around the young man, strangling him to death.

"If I recollect you only tried to take it from me by force," he said. He bowed deeply and put his hand out to give Margaret the bonnet. She snatched it and without another word she stomped away.

She reached the drive and saw nothing of Edward's carriage. She hoped that Marianne and her husband hadn't left, for if they had she would be walking home. She spotted her sister coming out of the house with a large basket slung over her arm. Margaret nearly ran to her.

"Might you drop me off at Barton Cottage, Marianne?" she asked breathlessly.

"Did they leave you again?" Marianne asked.

"Do you even need to ask?"

"No. And yes, you may come with us. Hurry before Mrs. Jenning's catches us," her sister whispered, grabbing her arm and pulling her from the front step. "I've been trying to leave but she keeps at me like some insect."

"Miss Dashwood!"

"Yes, Mrs. Jennings?" Margaret asked, turning around with a smile.

"I thought since I gave your Marianne a basket of leftovers that you would like one for you and your mother."

"It is fine, Mrs. Jennings. We do not want for food."

The old lady's eyes widened, and she laughed suddenly. "I am not implying that you do! I just don't have anything to do with all this food." _You could eat it like you usually do_. Margaret's hand flew to her mouth as the words almost formed on her lips.

"You'd be delighted to then? I can see you're excited about it. Let me fetch you one." With that Mrs. Jennings sent word to a servant that was idling nearby. The basket came within a minute, and the two girls were shuffled off to Brandon's elegant open carriage.

"We'll be seeing you later in the week, Miss Margaret?" asked Sir John. He took her basket and held it for her as she was handed into the carriage. She chanced a glance sideways and nearly ripped her hand out of the person's that held it. Mr. Ivison stood there, helping her in as if nothing had happened earlier—but it had and Margaret wasn't about to forget it. She lowered her eyes at him as she settled herself down onto the seat. He slid in next to her, leaning out to take her basket from Sir John.

Mr. Ivison brushed her hands away as she went to get it from him. "I'll hold it for you, Miss Dashwood," he said.

"It's fine really—," she began, taking hold of the basket by the handle.

"Margaret, let him hold it," Marianne said. "It's a bit heavy and will wrinkle your dress."

"Fine," she acquiesced reluctantly. She could imagine the satisfied smile on Mr. Ivison's face as he won the battle. She had completely forgotten that he was Marianne's guest. If she'd remembered then she would just have walked home.

"That was quite delicious, wasn't it, Mariane?" Brandon asked his wife genially. She smiled up at him.

"Not as delicious as what we are to have for dinner," she replied.

"And what might that be, Mrs. Brandon?" Mr. Ivison asked.

"Roast pheasant and baked eggs."

"Sounds like something my mother would make."

"Oh really?" Margaret asked aloud. Marianne looked at her suspiciously.

"Yes, Miss Dashwood. She's one to always use her hands. She even does some of her own gardening."

"We do all of our own," she muttered, earning herself a kick in the foot by Marianne.

Once the dreadful ride home was at an end Marianne got out with her sister. As they approached the cottage she turned upon her younger sister. "What is wrong with you, Margaret?"

"Nothing," Margaret replied. She was not in the mood to be lectured.

"I want to know. You've been quite boorish to Mr. Ivison."

Margaret muttered her answer. "What did you say?" Marianne asked.

"He stole my bonnet." The memory of it all stole upon her cheeks crimsonly. Perhaps she was overdoing it now, but he'd overdone it back at Barton Park.

"He what?" laughed Marianne.

"It's not funny, Marianne."

"Why would a gentleman steal a bonnet? Better yet, what would he even want with such a thing?"

"Exactly what I was wondering myself as he teased me. He was terrible!"

"Hush now or the whole world will hear you!"

"He deserves to hear how abominable he acted. His manners are severely lacking."

"And yours aren't?"

"No."

"If you call walking about bare-headed during a luncheon at Sir John's mannerly, then forgive me for wearing mine. I didn't know."

"I had my reasons."

"Ah, yes…he stole it right from your head."

Margaret hesitated. "No…he took it from under a potted tree."

"And what was it doing there?"

"Hiding from him." Saying it made it sound sillier than it really was. By the time Margaret told her sister about the situation that had lead to her taunting by Mr. Ivison her shoulders were shaking with laughter.

"Please don't laugh, Marianne. They'll hear you." Leaning from behind her sister Margaret was able to make out the carriage on the road. She could just make out the brilliant hue of Mr. Ivison's hair. "I hope you will reprimand him."

"He's not my son—nor is he near enough to be so. Besides, I don't think he was doing it just to irk you. It's his way of flirting, I think."

"I do not flirt, Marianne, if that's what you are insinuating. It's foolish. Why can't people just be straight about their feelings with people? It'd make the whole world so much less complicated."

"So you'd rather have Mr. Ivison declare his attraction to you right now?"

"I would not. He's the exception—besides, he is not attracted to me."

Marianne rose her eyebrows slightly. "I ought to get back to the carriage. They shall wonder where I've gone to. Tell Mama I will call upon her later in the week."

"I shall," Margaret said. Her head was beginning to ache. She would go lie down on her bead with a cold cloth to her head once she got inside.

"Oh, and tell Mama that I will be having a small dinner sometime soon."

"Alright. Go before they send a search party after you." Marianne went to the carriage and it rattled away to Delaford.

Margaret wearily climbed the stairs to her room. Just as she was settled on her bed Mrs. Filbee arrived. She could hear her and her mother chatting away downstairs. That and the quiet murmur of the wind through the attic above her room set her sleep. She dreamed of Egypt once again, riding over dune after dune with a camel beneath her and a large, floppy bonnet upon her head.


	3. Chapter 3

Margaret settled her rump onto a particularly soft spot of wild grass studded with purple and white flowers. The greenery soughed as it closed around her, tall blades of grass tugging her arms together and drawing her knees up for her close to her chest. She sighed, picked at flora, stared at the unusual blue of the sky above. She closed her eyes and wriggled her nose at the curious wind that circled at her. Sweet, tangy, grass-scented.

"How do you do, Miss Dashwood?" she asked herself, the vision of a faceless man dressed comfortably in a riding cape and boots appearing on the inside of her eyelids.

"Mr. Fisher!" she replied to herself, cheeks warming. "It has been too long since we spoke last."

He carefully took his hat off and knelt to sit in front of her. "I—I tried, but you know how bad a correspondent I am. My handwriting's atrocious!" His eyes, even though she did not know what color his irises were, were merry.

She demurred. "From the scant notes you sent me, I have a good selection written in a manner most elegant."

"That was my secretary, then," he laughed. She smiled pleasantly at him, meant to touch his hand with the tips of her ungloved fingers, but refrained and opened her eyes. She twisted her digits into the material of her shawl and momentarily frowned. She wondered if Mr. Fisher had lovely eyes, ones as beautiful as Edward's. Would he like their honeymoon to be in Egypt or China?

A blade of grass tapped at her ear and she turned to glare at it. Her puckered mouth turned into a saucy grin when she saw that Mr. Fisher was beside her again. "You're back again," she observed, leaning towards him.

"I went to pick a bouquet for you, Miss Dashwood," she heard herself say aloud, savoring the sound of his imaginary words on her mouth. She took the clutch of crimson, almost-orange poppies from his outstretched hand. Their fingers brushed and a little spark ran up to Margaret's elbow. She imaged her arm bursting into flames, turning black and hot with the intense heat.

Margaret heard the threads of her name from downhill riding the wind, and she shot to her feet. It was Elinor and her blasted French texts, no doubt marching up to scold her. Margaret went the opposite direction, towards anywhere but her sister. She picked her way down an animal's path on the steep side of the hill. The strings of her bonnet played within reach of her teeth; she choked on them.

Whilst spitting said ribbons from her mouth she tucked herself between some tall boulders. The mud-scented chill of the rocks' shadows covered her entirely, and she thanked them for their help. By craning her neck, Margaret could see her elder sister's bonneted head passing by atop the hill. She giggled into her palms, snuffling.

Sister gone and all clear, Margaret found she could relinquish her hiding space to the crawlies and small rodents that called it home. She decided to go down the rest of the small path and examined each moss-covered boulder as she went by. What age do these come from? she asked herself. What other humans have touched them as I do now?

Her musings were cut short when she barreled into the sudden body of Mr. Ivison, who was coming up the path after a morning spent fishing. His pole strapped to his back and a bucket of water and fish in both hands, Mr. Ivison hadn't been expecting anybody to cross his path. His step was quick and purposeful; he meant to get back to Delaford in time for breakfast. The fact that Miss Dashwood was just up the path did not occur to him.

The impact was a flurry of arms and curses from both sides. The sound of cloth tearing and a sudden wooden snap filled the increasing space between them quite well. Margaret sharply stepped backwards, trodding on her hem and renting a gap in the back of her dress up to her knees. Mr. Ivison toppled backwards, fishing pole in pieces around him and blood welling up in his right nostril as he hit the ground.

"Bloody hell," uttered Margaret in a tone that would shock her mother and sisters to the bone. She stepped towards the figure on the ground. He gingerly felt his nose and held out a bloodied hand to keep her back; he used his arm carefully to bring himself to his knees.

He looked sideways, somewhat abashed. "Might I request the help of your hand, Madame?" he asked of Margaret. She looked startled that he spoke at all, but jumped to assist him to his feet. He grasped her hand roughly, tried to get upright and failed. Without a word, he switched his hand to grasp her behind the neck as he pulled himself upwards.

What she glimpsed of his eyes as his face passed close by hers was a blue, almost white, blur. Did they normally look like that, or was it just because of the pain? Were Mr. Fisher's eyes so crystalline? She shook the thought from her pounding head and gasped when she felt a draft on her legs. She let go of the man as soon as he was stable, her hands flying behind her. A quick examination with her fingers told her all she needed to know; her mother would be livid. She began to feel a blush crawling guiltily onto her face.

"I apologize for the incident, Miss Dashwood," Mr. Ivison told her, bowing awkwardly while trying to staunch the flow of blood from his nose. He had managed to knock it straight into Margaret's head, above her left ear. She felt the tender spot with her fingertips and winced. It was already starting to swell.

"No, no, it was my doing, mooning about like the wet goose that I am," Margaret insisted.

"Fine," he replied instantly, looking round for his fishing pole. He found it in two pieces, one resting back down the path a few meters and the other crushed beneath Margaret's muddied boot. "You should be more aware of your surroundings."

"What?" exclaimed Margaret, skin tightening uncomfortably around her ear as she grew indignant. "_You_ should watch where you're walking, Sir."

Mr. Ivison snorted. "Oh aye? And what about mooning about, girl? That didn't have anything to do with my broken fishing pole did it?"

Margaret narrowed her eyes. This was looking to turn bothersome. Lunch was approaching and she didn't want to be scolded for that, among others things concerning her older sister. She turned on her heel and began to march back up the steep slope. It was slow going, and she only realized her legs were exposed to Mr. Ivison's view when her dress blew up around her knees.

She nearly shrieked, but held what was left of her dignity and just settled the bewitched material with her palms. She had to loop the bottom of her dress around, meaning walking was more difficult, but as long as the tear was gone from prying eyes she would be able to handle it until she was out of sight. Then she'd hightail it home, sneak up to her room, fume a bit, and change into something less…torn.

Margaret thought she heard a quiet laugh behind her. She spun around, eyes ready to imprint death on Mr. Ivison, but he was halfway down the hillside already. He couldn't have seen her torn dress, couldn't he? Did he? Dwelling on the thought, she nearly yelled her frustration to the sky. Even though it wasn't the fault her injury, the blueness seemed to mock her now. She kicked at a loose stone in her way. It ricocheted and tumbled.

"You are the worst of sisters," Elinor told Margaret, who was unable to hide the damage that'd been done. "First you escape your lessons like some kind of pirate, and then you fall from a tree, incidentally tearing your new afternoon dress?"

Margaret hung her head. She tried to will the ache in her brain but it only throbbed maliciously back at her. Nyah, nyah. "I—I don't know what to say."

"You probably knocked all of your sense out during your fall. Now what'll we do with you?"

Margaret's hands found their way to her hips. "You needn't do a thing. I'm an adult. You're not my mother nor my guardian." Elinor gaped at her.

"And—and no more lessons for this week!" Margaret shouted around the corner as she fled up the stairs. She desperately needed a break. Elinor threw her hands up when her sister disappeared. She marched out of the house to gesticulate in the garden among the humming bees.

Margaret shifted the curtains with her pointer finger, watched until her sister was gone from view, then she flew back down the stairs and to the muddied path that ran to the main road. She'd shoved her bonnet with the green embroidery on her head and was wearing her white afternoon dress, a thin shawl wrapped around her waist. Her shoes dangled from her fingers.

She skipped across the road and took the faint path across the hill to town. She didn't care if twigs of dry grass snagged at the skin of her bare feet. She was free for the moment to be as she would always like to be. Unconstrained. No table manners to deal with.

When she was within sight of town she slipped her shoes on and brushed shrub matter from her hem. A tiny jerk at her bonnet and a tug at her braid, Margaret entered town slowly. She'd have to look only in one place to find her friends. Annis was always smooshed into a novel at the bookstore, and Lydia and Diana were wont to snatch a cup of sweet tea and tarts at the tea shop. Margaret went in there first.

Lydia looked up from her palms, a smile spreading on her face as she caught sight of Margaret. "How grand to see you, for I've just the thing to tell you!" she gushed, pushing her cup aside and calling for another and a plate of sliced cakes as well.

Margaret plomped her rear gracefully into the chair across from her friend. "Who is it this time?"

"Why pardon _me_," Lydia exaggerated shock, placing a hand on her chest. "Goodness me, someone's in a dark fury."

"Just the usual lecture by Elinor," she replied tiredly. "I understand her wish for me to better myself and to expand my French horizons, but I wish she would ease off once or twice."

"Maybe if you put in more effort, she'd be easier to bear, seeing as you'd be doing what's called _learning_," Lydia told her friend, waggling her finger and simultaneously snatching a piece of cake from her fork with her delicately chomping teeth.

Margaret couldn't help but roll her eyes at the very thing her mother and sisters were used to tell her. A generous bite into more cake couldn't drive the feeling of semi-betrayal from her friend's name. "I wished to escape the realities of my situation by coming here, Lydia. Pray do not propagate my misery by forcing me to commit a scene by strangling you to death with my shawl."

"Ah," Lydia purred, "offence was not meant, my dear. I'm just in the oddest of moods this day. I could have sworn that Jeremy Fisher was looking my way, but that she-creature was just inches away."

Margaret hid a grin. "She can't help it if she's Venus incarnate."

"Her mother could have helped it," muttered Lydia, wiping crumbs from her lips. Margaret hid the awkward smile that began to creep upon her face. Lydia was known for her grumblings about the Goddess, but she'd never wished someone unborn.

"Did you have another dream about him?" Margaret asked her, leaning forward confidingly.

Lydia sighed dramatically, air escaping her lungs like a tempest. "Yees. It's not as if I can control what I dream of, for dreams are quite random and unpredictable."

"Only when you haven't been contemplating the Grecian profile of some nobleman," Margaret quipped. Lydia flashed an angry glance at her friend.

"_You_ wouldn't understand, I suppose," Lydia sighed once more. "You've never experienced the storm that is unrequited love. It is terribly lonesome, painful, and delicious. You can do anything in dreams." She blushed.

"Humph," Margaret harrumphed. "Shall we go to the milliner's? I have a bonnet in need of repair." Lydia swiped some tarts into her reticule, paid the hostess, and followed her under-weather friend outside onto the street.

They had walked but five paces when suddenly Lydia jumped behind Margaret. "Keep walking!" she demanded behind Margaret's shoulder, ducking her head out and then behind and out again. "It's him."

"Don't die on me," Margaret complained. "It'd cause such a scene and then _he _would notice you were walking on the street. We couldn't have that." Lydia just whimpered. Once they had ducked into the milliner's she withdrew from Margaret's back.

"That was much too close for my comfort," Lydia said, fanning her face, blowing strands of her blonde hair into her eyes. She drew them back. "Ooo, what a charming color!"

"I don't understand why you avoid Mr. Fisher like the plague. He's handsome and amiable, there'd be no unease," Margaret said. "And by hiding you're giving up what chances you have of him _ever_ noticing you. I won't always be there to hide behind." She was by the window display, fingering the newly imported silk ribbons when the most unlikely of all people appeared and stood with two others just outside of the shop.

Margaret dove to the ground, knocking a display of ribbons and flowers to the ground with a clutter. The proprietress frowned, but said nothing. Just watched. Margaret put everything back with Lydia's help. There. Good as new.

"What was that all about?" Lydia asked her, allowing herself to be dragged to the back of the building behind stands and stands of outrageously priced hats and bonnets.

"You'll think me the world's biggest hypocrite, Lydia," moaned Margaret. "Mr. Ivison just—just, appeared! He probably saw my legs, my, my—." She stammered to a stop.

Lydia's jaw was to the floor. "_What_? Your legs!" she shrieked.

The proprietress glared at them, approached. "Young ladies, your volume is too loud. I would ask you to lower your voices or leave."

"Well!" Lydia flounced. "See if I ever come to this establishment again!" She began to tug Margaret out.

"No, no, no, no!" Margaret protested, digging her heels into the ground. She grabbed another bonnet stand to tie herself down. It fell with an unusually loud crash. She could see Mr. Ivison looking through the window curiously. "So sorry, Ma'am!"

"Get out of here before you burn this place down!" the woman cried. She grabbed the stand, dragged it up, as Margaret went to meet with Fate just outside of the shop. She hurriedly straightened her shawl and arranged her bonnet as best she could. Stiff spine, stiff spine, she repeated to herself. Easy smile. Oh I didn't notice you there, Mr. Ivison….

They exited at the moment that Mr. Ivison was lifting his eyes to the sky, laughing. Down they flew as Margaret ran into a manservant carrying purchases from a nearby store. The boxes flew to the wind. Margaret's heart stopped, but she rushed forward to catch as much as she could. Two boxes were all that she could manage. Lydia squawked behind her, running forward to help.

"I'm terribly sorry!" Margaret cried out. She handed the man his parcels.

He smiled. "No need for apologizing, Miss. The walk's crowded as it is. Can't watch where you're going every second."

Margaret almost cried when she heard his kind words; she'd been expecting a blustery lecture on mooning about again. "Thank you for your understanding. I'm sure all would have been well if I'd not got up this morning. So much has gone wrong…" she groaned.

The man laughed. "Well, such a pretty face doesn't deserve to dwell in solitude."

Margaret flushed. "Oh!"

"Pardon me, Miss," the man said, bowing politely, grinning. "I hope all goes well for you for the rest of the day, Miss."

"Thank you," she replied, curtsying to him a touch deeper than expected. He deserved it.

It had all happened so quickly, that by the time the manservant had departed, Lydia was still exclaiming over it. She was smoothing her dress, readjusting her gloves and hat. "Well! My day just keeps getting worse and worse."

"You are not alone, my friend," Margaret bemoaned, grasping the young woman's elbow. Together they crossed the street.

She almost forgot about Mr. Ivison, who had most assuredly seen the entire episode—which in turn reaffirmed his view of her clumsiness and supposed blindness, no doubt. He was with his acquaintances on their side of the street, walking behind them, laughing about nonsense. The pace the girls kept was too slow for their comfort, so they hurried past, eyeing the both of them in a semi-admiring way. Mr. Ivison even winked at Margaret. She tripped over her own foot, caught herself on Lydia and announced that a visit to Diana's was needed. Hadn't she vanquished his fishing pole earlier in the day? And hadn't he been visibly livid with her?


	4. Chapter 4

Diana, unfortunately, was not in, the butler informed the young women. "But if you would wait, she will be arriving with her mother within the quarter of the hour, Miss." He bowed them into the prettiest of the receiving parlors—the one with the yellow and white papered walls and striped blue furniture. Lydia ran her fingers down the draperies, sighing. Margaret sank into a nearby chair, dropping her bonnet back from her head, letting it thump gently to rest on her back. A curl sprang loose from her bun.

Lydia's fingers stilled as she remembered something all of a sudden. "Your _legs_?" she asked in confusion. "And who is it that you speak of?"

A plump maid had entered backwards into the parlor holding a heavy tray just minutes after they'd arrived. It was laden with two varieties of tea and an assortment of cookies and cakes. Margaret had immediately pounced. She spilled tea down her chin from the cup she'd served herself out of the tea service.

She shoved a large slice of lemon cake into her mouth. She held up a finger to still the protest that would surely come from Lydia. It was a sad tactic, eating as a pig would just to avoid the inquisition. It had to be done, though. Margaret needed time to think.

"I don't know what you speak of," she replied primly after wetting her dry throat with more tea.

Lydia rolled her eyes so much they nearly popped from her eyes and fell to the lush rug beneath their feet. "When we made that sudden getaway from the store? Had it to do something with the men just outside the door?"

Margaret turned beet red. Shook her head and turned her face away from her friend. "Not at all!"

Lydia sidled over, sat beside Margaret and turned her to face her with a finger to her friend's chin. "Oh really?" she asked softly. Her friend hardly ever blushed over any person of the opposite sex. Lydia was intrigued. Very much so.

Margaret shook her friend off. "No," she sighed. "Mr. Ivison. You know…"

"Ah!" Lydia cried out, clapping her hands together in delight. "You like him! You carry a tendre for him!"

Margaret gasped. "I do not!"

"Whatever you say," Lydia said knowingly. She winked. Margaret couldn't help herself. She flushed at the thought of _that man_ doing the same to her earlier. She even let out a tiny groan in self-disgust.

Diana chose this time to arrive home from a day of calling on crotchety relatives and family friends with her mother. She looked harried and bored to tears, so it was with gratefulness that she received and hugged her closest friends. "It is a surprise to me that they've not married me off yet!" she exclaimed, laughing.

Lydia dismissed the subject immediately with a wave of her hand. "Of course! But you'd never guess—Margaret's in love!!"

Diana's eyes widened. She put a hand to her chest and pretended to faint onto a settee. "I thought the day would never come. At long last she's forgotten her dear Edward and moved to other, more available waters."

"Please!" Margaret protested. "I know I had some sort of an obsession with my sister's husband, but that was ages ago. And I am by no means admitting to admiration for Mr. Ivison! He may be handsome, but that doesn't signify. I've never been so humiliated." She felt tears spring to her eyes and put her face into her hands.

"Would Miss Dashwood care for a handkerchief?" Diana cooed. She wiped her friend's tears from her face with her fingertips and a square of white cloth.

Lydia took hold of her young friend's shoulders and squeezed her gently. "I'm sorry for having made sport of you, Madge. Did he hurt you terribly?" She locked eyes with Diana, raising her brows hopefully; they were both vastly interested in what occurred.

"I refuse to mention it," Margaret said crossly, wiping her face defiantly. To recount the occasion would be to relive it—she didn't want to be mortified again.

"Well," Lydia said pointedly, "I spotted Mr. Fisher today. I wished the street would've swallowed me whole!"

Diana sighed. "I don't understand you. Don't you want him to notice you?"

"Of course," Lydia replied.

"You're hardly going about it with the right attitude, my dear."

Lydia's eyes narrowed. "I think I know what's best for me, thank you." She whipped her fan out and plied it at her flushed face.

"That's beautiful!" Margaret cried out, jumping forward to examine the object. The handle was inlaid with tiny gems and the design was exquisite, like a pastel rainbow.

"Thank you," her friend replied, holding it away from her only to admire it better. "My godmother gave it to me when I was last in Paris."

"You've never been to Paris, Lydia!" cried Diana in outrage.

"Yes, but the she-creature has and I was just—just mimicking her. Mr. Fisher will take me there on our wedding tour," Lydia said confidently.

"That's if he notices you enough to ask you," Diana muttered. Lydia sent her a defiant glare, but said nothing.

Margaret, on the other hand, smiled to herself. It wasn't coincidence that her imaginary beau had the same name as Lydia's current object of fascination. She had first seen the young man at an assembly a few years back, and she was immediately smitten with him. He had a mustache then, trimmed and elegant over an always grinning mouth. She could've swooned each time she chanced to take his arm during a dance. And, of course, he hadn't noticed her.

Margaret was crushed, seeing as he was only the second obsession she'd had in her young life. She gave up after Lydia declared his eyes were the doors to the soul of an angel. Her friend had more of a chance, what with her straighter hair, prettier smile and wealthier parents. Eventually her admiration petered out, but her imaginary beau (conjured up after she knew all was hopeless between her and Edward) had taken on Mr. Fisher's name. And it stuck. Currently, her feelings for the real man were like that of a cat to an elephant—nonexistent.

"—never did get to repair your bonnet," Lydia mentioned to Margaret.

"Oh," she started, looking down at the ragged article. The ribbon was nearly torn off. "I guess we were in too much of a hurry."

"Will you visit the shop on the way back?" Diana asked of her. "I really think you ought to."

"The proprietress would not appreciate my reappearance, I think," Margaret laughed. "We nearly tore her shop to shreds."

Lydia giggled into her teacup. "She was shouting so! And waving her arms around like Arthur Reed's windmill!"

"Well," Diana began, reaching behind her and pulling out a package from behind a potted plant, "I think this will solve your troubles, Madge."

Margaret narrowed her eyes. "You bought me something?"

"No, no," her friend quickly said. "My mother did. She is so forgetful, you know, and she realized she hadn't wished you a happy birthday."

"She must queer in the head, for that was _ages_ ago," Lydia commented, eagerly eyeing the box and nearly licking her lips in anticipation.

"Look, it has nothing to do with—."

"I know, Diana," Margaret assured her. "I hadn't even thought about it. Tell your mother that I am happy to accept her gift and that I love it."

"You haven't even opened it!" Lydia nearly shouted in frustration. "If you're not going to, may I?"

Margaret sighed. "I would be honoured if you would open my gift." Lydia squealed, snatched the box into her lap and carefully undid the colored parchment and ribbon. The box was emblazed with French words and was clearly from that fashionable city. Lydia gasped as she opened the box and pulled out a gorgeously simple bonnet.

"When did _you_ go Paris?" Lydia demanded, half-looking at her friend and the bonnet.

"I didn't. But my mother did when she was with my father on a business trip of his," Diana retorted.

"And she bought me this?" Margaret whispered guiltily, fingering the wide brim.

"It was nothing! Believe me," Diana airily replied. "She had connections, knew the milliner's mother's friend or some such. In short, she outfitted herself quite well, and I happened to remind Mama of your upcoming birthday in a letter. I wrapped it for you just last week when she came home."

"Why didn't I get anything?" muttered Lydia forlornly, fondly caressing the bonnet with her fingers.

"If only you were a little more patient, Lydia," Diana sighed.

"What do you mean?" Lydia asked her, confusion rumpling her forehead.

"She means you just wait until _your_ birthday," Margaret explained to her.

"Oh," Lydia said. "Oh! But—couldn't we celebrate it today?"

Diana just shook her head and turned to Margaret. "Shall you try it on now?" She scooted closer to her young friend, and, with some help, Margaret placed it upon her head and tied the ribbons at a jaunty angle.

"You look like a drawing from a Paris fashion plate," Lydia told her. "Such a lovely creation." And it was indeed! The bonnet was similar to Margaret's old one, but instead the brim was wider, the weave more intricate and the ribbons simply divine. They were the color of Provencal lavender with tiny white and blue flowers embroidered down their lengths.

"I will wear it always," Margaret told her friend, hugging her around the neck. "And I do love it."

"What shall you do with this old thing?" Lydia asked, holding her other bonnet with her fingertips in distaste.

"I dub it my official adventuring hat," Margaret said, smiling, happily tossing it onto the couch with relish. "Mr. Ivison will never see the likes of it again." The girls were greatly cheered—and even more mystified—by the lift in their friend's spirit, and they celebrated with some more tea and cake.

* * *

The trek back to Barton cottage was a lovely one. Though Margaret liked her new bonnet, she did not want to waste the late afternoon sun staring at the inside of its brim. She clutched the article in its elegant box tightly in her arms with her usual bonnet slung over her arm. Her shoes, at least, were on her feet where they belonged.

Margaret fairly skipped down the inclined road that ended in a curve where her home was situated. From a distance she could see Edward's carriage sitting at the bottom of their hill, the horses delicately pawing at the ground. Elinor was going back to her own abode. Margaret tore down the dirt road, box jouncing into her ribs and dress flying behind her. Though she was oft annoyed with her eldest sister, she didn't want her to leave without seeing her birthday present.

Elinor was just stepping outside of the house, a bundle of vegetables underneath her arm and a basket of sewing on the other. She smiled at the approach of her sister. She harkened back to the days when Margaret was a little girl, barely four feet tall and already running around like a banshee. "What's this?" she asked of her youngest sibling.

"A late present from Diana's mother," Margaret gasped in reply, "and it's from France!"

"Well let me have a look," Elinor demanded as she put her things into the back of her husband's carriage. Margaret complied, opening the box on the street and modeling it for her sister and brother-in-law.

"How pretty you look," Edward told her from his perch in the carriage.

"Thank you," Margaret said, curtsying as best she could.

"If only you acted like this all the time, then we wouldn't have to worry about you, Madge," Elinor told her. Margaret's smile slipped momentarily, but she beamed once more as their mother came outside and admired the bonnet.

"Charming, really," Mrs. Dashwood exclaimed. "But don't wear it out—else it'll get as ragged as your other ones."

"I shall do my best, Mama," Margaret promised, winking at Edward who laughed into his shoulder as he chirruped to his horses. Elinor stepped into the carriage, wondering aloud at his laughter. She waved goodbye as they were jerked forward and down the road.

Mrs. Dashoowd's hand had crept up to clasp her youngest daughter's shoulders. Giving the girl one tired pat on the back of her neck, the woman climbed the path to the cottage, no doubt hurrying to get back to much-needed sewing.

Margaret twirled once and then dashed after her mother, up the stairs to her room where she commenced to examine herself in the looking glass. She carefully opened her box and placed the bonnet onto her hair, bending her neck slightly and grinning at the same time in bashful recognition. Mr. Fisher had appeared behind her, placing his weightless fingers onto her shoulders. He leaned into her neck, and whispered into her ear: "No one could wear that better than you." She spun around but he'd gone already, walking no doubt on a foggy Paris street thinking longingly about her.

"I'm such a child," she muttered to herself, dashing her old bonnet onto her bed and slumping into a chair, trying hard not to think about him. She wondered why he kept appearing to her; he was wont to stay away for weeks upon weeks, but now he visited her every day and sometimes more than once.

The light from her window suddenly dimmed as clouds whisked over the sun. Margaret had forgotten that summer days did not always stay bright, but often storms came from the blue and washed the world in rain. Just the thing. She pressed her forehead onto the glass of her window, puffing her cheeks out and creating strange sounds while frowning at the weather. Now, when a tree would do her well, she had to sit tight _inside_, twiddling her thumbs.

A quiet knock on her door heralded the arrival of her mother. She stepped into the room and began picking up the books that were strewn on the floor. She placed them in her daughter's bookshelf, laying a hand across her brow. "Are you well, Mama?" Margaret asked her, rushing to her side.

"My head aches again, Margaret. I can hardly hold my needle without dropping it. Could you finish the sewing up while I go take a rest?"

"Of course, Mama, anything," Margaret said, leading her mother to her room, opening the door, and drawing a sheet over her exhausted form. Margaret drew the curtains closed and prepared to leave the room.

Mrs. Dashwood held out a hand to her youngest. "Do you remember what your father used to do when I was ill?" she asked her, dreamily, as if she could picture her husband before her eyes.

"No," Margaret answered, kneeling beside the bed. "What was it?"

Her mother drew a hand over her hair and cupped her cheek fondly. "He'd take a cold cloth, soak it with rose water and sing that lullaby he used to sing to Elinor and Marianne—something about cradles and bells. I would _always_ feel better after that."

Tears gathered in both their eyes. "Do you wish me to do the same for you?" Her mother nodded. "I'll be right here, then, after I fetch you some tea." Margaret got the water, the tea, and then went back up the narrow staircase to her mother's chambers.

"Bless you, Madge," the woman said, sitting up to sip from her steaming teacup.

"I—I don't know the lullaby," Margaret told her, "but I brought the water and rose oil."

She poured the oil in warm water and bathed her mother's brow with a wet cloth. The woman sighed, squeezed her daughter's hand and thanked her. "I am practically asleep now, dear. Why don't you finish that sewing?" her mother told her, sleep lacing her voice with huskiness.

Margaret trudged down the stairs, back to the kitchen where the cook was stirring a pot of stew for the evening's dinner. She put the rose oil back on the shelf near the door and sat down on a stool before the table. "I wish I didn't have to finish the sewing. I see it as the most dreadful thing in the world to take up a needle and thread it through cloth."

The cook grunted, wiping her hands on her brow as she took a breather from the top of the woodstove. "You know, Miss Dashwood, if you wish it I can do it for you."

Margaret's face lit up. "Really?"

"If you finish cooking dinner. It'd be a fine break for my poor old hands," the woman sighed.

"I—I'm sorry, but I don't know how to cook," Margaret stammered, glad to have an excuse. She felt sorry for the woman, though. The sky might be filled with rain, but the air was heavy with heat. The tips of Margaret's hair was curling and hovering mischievously about her ears.

Cook pulled at one of the curls affectionately. "Whatever happened to that Fisher boy you fancied so much, Miss?"

Margaret rolled her eyes. "He never looked twice at me, and now Lydia's gone and imprinted him on her heart. It's terrible how she languishes over him and does nothing to catch his attentions."

"If I recall, you were like that once," Cook reminded her cheekily. She needn't say Edward's name to bring the color up in her young miss's cheeks.

"Goodness! Does everybody have to bring _that_ up? It was a mere little girl's fascination with an older man. And that," she cut the air with her finality, "is that!"

Cook laughed. "I'm sorry I even brought it up."

"I hope that you are," Margaret said primly, smoothing the front of her dress with careful strokes. "Now, if you will excuse me, I must attend to the sewing." She stepped daintily off her stool and glided to the couch where her mother had left the heaps of clothing. Margaret randomly chose a pair of drawers and attempted to mend them.

"You know, if we were married, you would never have to darn another pair of socks," Mr. Fisher told her from his perch on the windowsill. His knees were folded up and his chin rested on top of them. It was times like these, when the sun chose to break through the rain clouds and to illuminate his face, in which Margaret wished she knew what he looked like.

"That would be wonderful," she intoned, a silly smile slipping onto her face.

"Erhm." Her eyes darted away from the windowpane where nothing but a cobweb sat. Mr. Ivison was curved around the corner of the wall leading into the room, his hand retreating from a recent knock—one which Margaret did not hear. He was looking at her strangely; had he heard her conversing with Mr. Fisher?

"Good afternoon, Mr. Ivison," she greeted him coldly. "To what do I owe this pleasure? You can hardly be here to see me."

"Why not?" he asked in surprise. Before she could answer, he cut in. "Is your cook in residence?"

"What? Cook?" Margaret asked him. "Doesn't Brandon have his own?"

"Of course," he bowed to her, his hair stuck to his forehead in wet, almost dark brown clumps. He seemed a different person without his glowing head of hair. "Your sister is planning a large dinner this evening and has invited you and your sister and mother. There is much to be prepared and cooked in just a few hours."

"I see." Margaret stood up, a bunch of white drawers in hand, and thought. She crossed the room, looked fleetingly at the man, and shoved the drawers and chemises into his surprised arms. He started forward to catch them before they could fall out of his grasp.

It was only when he really examined what he held that he was discomfited and that his face burned almost painfully. While Margaret went to fetch Cook, he was stuck with women's delicates in his hands. He couldn't very well put them back, because then Miss Dashwood would know he knew that they were of a delicate nature. If he kept holding them, he'd look a fool.

Margaret caught Cook by the arm and pulled her into the room just as Mr. Ivison was planning on what to do. There was no need, of course, for Cook's laughter was just what Margaret had been wishing for. It was loud, ringing, dynamic, and completely aimed at the poor man. "Well goodness me," Margaret said as if in surprise, "why are you holding _those_?"

"You gave them to me," he muttered with a mouthful of cloth of the unmentionable nature.

"I do ask for forgiveness. I forgot I had those with me," Margaret apologized in an almost convincing manner. The corner of her mouth twitched. Mr. Ivison seemed to know what was going on before she even said those words aloud. As she went to take back her sewing he grabbed her arm and stopped her straight. Her smile, damn her, kept on stretching. He wanted to drop the things as if they were on fire; so why did he keep on holding them?

"I'll take these out of your hands, Mr. Ivison," Cook told him, looking pitifully at him. He released his hold on the girl, and she slipped away.

"Thank you, Ma'am," he told her, bowing stiffly. He tried to keep his eyes from straying in Margaret's direction as he spoke with Cook on the details of the evening's dinner. With the corner of his eye, he was able to see the young woman dart out of the room, holding her sides with suppressed laughter. "Brandon said he'd send a carriage round for you as soon as the rain lets off."

Cook shook her hands in refusal. "No, no. My legs are just as good as any horse's. I will just get myself ready to go, won't I? Thank you for coming round, Mr. Ivison." She curtsied and then shuffled out of the room. He was left to show himself out of the house, and he did so, ducking his head as he stepped over the threshold and into the dribbling rain.

* * *

Mrs. Dashwood was up in time to prepare for the dinner at Marianne's. She declared her headache vanished and became her usual worrying self as she ran her fingers through her graying hair. "Has Elinor come round yet, Margaret?" she called into the hall that adjoined their two rooms.

Margaret was lighting a lamp in her room with a taper lit from the fireplace downstairs. Hearing her mother, she accidentally blew the flame out. Sighing crossly, she trudged down the stairs and out into the significantly rain-cooled evening to check the road below Barton Cottage. It was empty. Elinor and Edward were late. "Margaret?" her mother called from upstairs once more.

Margaret lit her taper once more, telling herself that next time she'd bring the lamp downstairs with her, and went up the stairs slowly, shielding the flame and crossing her fingers. "They've yet to arrive, Mama," she told her mother in passing her door.

"Don't they know that arriving late is rude?" Mrs. Dashwood wailed, appearing at her door with her hair wild and loose around her shoulders.

"You haven't even dressed your hair yet?" Margaret cried, rushing forward after succeeding in lighting the lamp in her room. She gently steered the woman into the chair before her vanity and began to brush her locks with a brush.

"Elinor was supposed to put my hair up herself," Mrs. Dashwood muttered, pinching her cheeks lightly.

Margaret smiled. "You'll have to do with me. And you must know, Mama," she said, leaning over her mother's shoulder to grin at her, "that Elinor is a married woman now. She has a husband to take care of and to groom. It's _my_ job now to groom _you_."

"Oh dear," the woman uttered, wanly smiling to herself. Her hand flew up to still her youngest daughter's brushstrokes. "Forgive an old woman, Madge. You're just as good a hairdresser as Elinor."

Margaret laughed, snorting once. "You know that isn't true, but I shall make as honest an attempt at a French twist as the Pope would." Mrs. Dashwood chuckled. The twist was passable, even by her standards.

Before her own mirror, Margaret braided her hair in several sections, tying them into a simple bun at the nape of her neck. Though she rarely wore earrings, she put in a tiny pair of pale pink pearls. They were given to her by Marianne and Brandon for her last birthday. She never found the right time to wear them, but this evening she meant to look her best. And it had nothing to do with that odious man, of course.

After tying her stays, she slipped into a cream-colored gown with embroidered roses at the bodice. Twitching the hem into place, Margaret bravely took a look of herself. She wasn't surprised. She looked as she always did, albeit a bit trussed up. She sighed, rolling her eyes, as she threw a cashmere shawl on.

"Margaret! They're here—do hurry now!" her mother shouted up the stairs.

The young woman jumped, looking madly for her shoes and grabbing her new bonnet as she practically dove out of her room and down the stairs. Her mother surprised her with a spritz of perfume in the face. She coughed, her tongue smarting from the horrible taste of the mixture. "You might have warned me!"

"I wasn't sure if you'd agree to it, seeing as you so hate to dress up," her mother pointedly said, looking with surprise at her daughter's appearance. "You look fine, Margaret, quite charming."

"Please, Mama," she groaned, wanting to hide. What had she been thinking of, dressing like this? She pushed away the sudden urge to flee, deciding to make do with what she'd dealt herself.

"There's nothing wrong with wearing a beautiful dress, you know. Everyone's doing it," Mrs. Dashwood reminded her. "No doubt Marianne will be wearing silk or some such expensive material. You won't stand out _at all_." She patted her daughter's shoulder reassuringly as she helped her into her bonnet so as not to disturb her hair.

After shutting the door behind themselves, they carefully maneuvered down the path to the carriage down below. Edward had gotten out and helped them up the step, shutting the tiny door with a click and jumping smartly into his seat. With a chirrup to the horses, the party was off to the Colonel's.


	5. Chapter 5

They glared at each other over the table. She was the first to cut into the roast venison on her plate, darting glances at the other occupants of the table. It was succulently juicy, the spices rubbed into it were perfectly balanced, but Margaret's tongue was the only one who cared. Whilst it curled contentedly at the superb taste, the young woman was busy chewing indifferently. _She_ wasn't going to let on that the very presence of Mr. Ivison was making her blood curdle.

On the other side of the table, Mr. Ivison's head swam with visions of undergarments, and—dash it!—he couldn't stop thinking about the ribbons and lace trimmings. His braised potatoes were like cotton in his mouth. Nothing tasted so foul to him than at the moment their eyes first met across the cutlery. Damn her! he raged within.

"Have you restocked your ponds, Brandon? I think it's about time for a fishing expedition," Edward informed the man. "When was the last time we went? Two weeks ago, eh?"

Brandon's fork stopped centimeters from his teeth. "Well, I don't remember." He chuckled to himself. "It must have been weeks, else I'd have recollected."

"If I recall," Elinor announced dryly after sipping from her wine glass, "the lot of you went fishing three days ago."

The men laughed guiltily to themselves, Mr. Ivison chiming in after swallowing a particularly repulsive forkful of venison. "I assume from this feast that you went hunting recently, Brandon. I suppose I can't persuade you to take to the woods, gun in hand?"

"That might be arranged," Brandon murmured, winking.

Sir John, along with his mother, laughed aloud appreciatively. "I wouldn't mind shooting at a pheasant or two."

Margaret attended to her plate, poking the venison full with holes. "I enjoy a good hunt," she said quietly.

Mrs. Jennings, being the eavesdropper she was, heard the pronouncement. "And when have you ever gone hunting, deary?"

"When I was younger, Edward would take me on expeditions to Africa, where we hunted tigers and ostriches," she replied to the amusement of those at the table.

"I was her slave," Edward added, grinning.

"And such an awful one!" Margaret cried out. "He would never comb my hair correctly, and the food he cooked tasted like sawdust!"

Mr. Ivison looked down without appetite. The greens on his plate may as well have been cooked with sand. Not, of course, that Cook had done a bad job; the others were clearly enjoying the spread, taking second helpings and sighing appreciatively.

"What is it that you do exactly, Mr. Ivison?" Edward asked of Marianne's guest.

"I'm a law clerk at my uncle's firm in London. It was an attempt at angering my parents. They wanted me to make Parliament my home, but with my connections to law through my uncle, I was able to dodge that bullet," Mr. Ivison told them. "It was that or join the clergy."

Elinor looked fondly at her husband. "It isn't the worst of occupations available."

"That is true, Mrs. Ferrars," he nodded, "but I couldn't imagine myself in a church, or for that matter in a powdered wig debating politics and minuscule, unimportant details."

"It sounds utterly boring," Margaret remarked unconsciously. When the man's eyes swung to look at her, she shut her mouth with a snap.

"Exactly my thinking, Miss Dashwood," he concurred.

Margaret shrugged a shoulder as if she didn't care. "But I wonder, Mr. Ivison, isn't law and Parliament one in the same?"

"How so?" he asked her, eyebrows rising up in question.

"Well, law is about the transgressions of rules, and Parliament decides rules. Wouldn't the breaking of said rules and the making of them go hand in hand?" Margaret put to him in challenge.

"Of course," he said, as if it were common sense.

"So wouldn't that mean you're hardly reneging on your parents' wishes—am I correct?" Margaret tried not to smile gleefully at him.

"No, you are not." Mr. Ivison scowled, clenching tightly at his wine glass.

"If I were you, Ivison, I wouldn't disagree with Madge," Edward advised him, pointing his finger warningly at him. Marianne grinned. She was delighted to see the two young ones going for each other's throats.

Mr. Ivison's mouth twitched. "Madge? As in _magpie_?"

Mrs. Jennings chuckled, her arms jiggling in merriment along with her bosom. "That's not the first time she's heard that, young sir."

"That is true, Ma'am," Margaret admitted coolly to the older woman, "but that doesn't make it any less rude!" Miraculously, her face remained pale with anger instead of the usual flare-up of color, and she was able to still the shaking of her hands with a firm clasp of her fingers.

Mrs. Dashwood laid a warning touch upon her youngest daughter's arm. "He meant no harm in it, surely. After all, you used to enjoy it so much when Papa called you that."

Margaret's nose went up in the air and she refused to say anything as she once more cut into her venison. "I forgive you your transgressions, Mr. Ivison," she said magnanimously, her narrowed eyes cutting through the air to glare at the gentleman in question.

He indicated his acceptance of her forgiveness with an incline of his head. Elinor, naturally, was put off with his lack of manners, but she wasn't going to point it out. She hadn't come to make a spectacle of herself as her sister had done so already.

Afterwords, the women left the gentlemen to their drinks and cigars and settled into the parlor, the heavy draperies shut to the night and a fire grinning within the hearth. Margaret sank into a reverie on a settee, sitting on her folded legs and leaning her cheek on a silken armrest. Marianne and Elinor had sequestered themselves by a painting of Brandon's great-grandfather, whispering busily, almost frantically. That left the two matrons to either chat or ignore each other. Mrs. Jennings was incapable of ignoring people; she immediately launched into her usual speech about being the one to have matchmaked Marianne and Brandon.

Margaret wished Lydia and Diana were with her; then she'd have something to occupy herself with, instead of thinking back on what had been said at dinnertime. Making sure no one was looking, she slid off the settee and stole over to the pitcher of wine. She poured herself a healthy amount of the stuff and downed half of it. She sat back down and conjugated the French verb _maudire_, to curse.

"I don't intend to befriend him," she muttered, biting at a hangnail. "Ouch!" She sucked her finger and then downed the rest of her wine. Footsteps outside the door to the parlor heralded the arrival of the men. Margaret relinquished her feet to the floor and the other women in the room took their spots on the couches. Just in time, for the door was flung open and the room was suddenly smaller for the number of male occupants.

To her dismay, Mr. Ivison plopped down on the other end of her couch, smelling of smoke. She spotted the tip of an un-used cigar in his waist pocket for his coat jutted forward, exposing the expensively tailored waist coat of deep purple silk. With nothing to occupy herself with, Margaret was at a loss for words; Mr. Ivison seemed to enjoy the silence and casually flipped his watch-fob up to check the time.

"Look, if you're here to gloat—," she hissed out of the side of her mouth while at the same time looking in the opposite direction from the man.

"Gloating is hardly respectable, Miss Dashwood," he chimed in, twisting a heavy ring around his middle finger over and over.

"But you do it so well, Sir," she shot back, still refusing to look at him.

"Do I take it you're complimenting me?" She could tell he was staring at her, for his voice was louder and no longer so muffled.

"Of course I am not _complimenting_ you."

Mr. Ivison sighed tiredly. "Surely this bantering and trading on and off of jokes at one another's expense is getting old? Shall we call a truce, Miss Dashwood?" She heard the settee protest as he leaned forward. With the corner of her eye, she saw his leather-slippered foot tap on the rug.

Margaret's eyebrows nearly jumped off her forehead in her surprise. She whipped her head around to stare in shock at her couch-companion. "A cease fire?" she inquired.

"With terms, of course," he told her.

"Of course," she acquiesced slowly, taking care to not stare at him in the eyes. Instead, she contemplated his neatly-trimmed sideburns.

Mr. Ivison glanced around him and then scooted closer to Margaret. Her spine stiffened immediately, but she kept her seat, refusing to be discomfited by the man. "If you, Miss Dashwood, admit to a certain prank you pulled earlier today," he began, smiling, "then I shall forget you even broke my fishing pole."

Margaret sat forward, tucking her feet underneath the hem of her dress, and folded her hands together primly. "I shall agree to your terms if you agree to mine, Mr. Ivison."

"And what might those be?" he asked with suspicion.

"If you admit to stealing my bonnet from me _twice_ and to calling me that horrid bird name, then I shall replace your fishing pole." She thought it was a good deal—surely the things would come at a cheap price.

"That's not fair at all," he refused. "Should I agree to your terms, then I'd be the only one admitting to wrong-doings—and by god, I know I am not the only one at fault."

"I haven't done anything you didn't earn from provoking me," Margaret murmured harshly. She tried to keep her voice as level as possible, but she heard a thread of anger in it. And if she got irritated, then she'd certainly become loud.

He was beside her suddenly—fast enough that she nearly jumped from her skin. "What of the undergarments? Hmm? I hardly think I provoked you to such a dirty deed."

Margaret's hand flew up to her throat at the mention of her delicates. "How dare you."

"How dare _you_." They glared contemptuously at each other until Sir John loudly declared his wish for a game of bridge. He and Mrs. Jennings partnered against Marianne and Brandon, who had set up a table in preparation for such a game.

Mrs. Jennings rubbed her large palms together in anticipation. "I hope you are feeling lucky this night, son."

Sir John raised his wine glass into the air in a toast to the gods. "May Zeus look favorably down upon us!"

Mrs. Dashwood frowned from across the room, but she gravitated towards the group of four once the game began. She kept watch for cheating, so she agreed to do, while at the same time she fussed over her son-in-law. Elinor and Edward drew seats close to the fire, just a few feet from the group. Margaret's sister had taken her sewing out and was carefully stitching as Edward leisurely propped his feet up and watched from afar. Margaret suspected he would fall asleep within minutes.

Having elected to refuse Mr. Ivison's terms, Margaret kept her face turned to the bridge game. She felt the cushions on the settee move as she was finally left alone. She did not care to note where the man went (so she told herself); though she was certain he had wandered out of the room. She cleared her throat, snuck a peak round at the people in the room, and then darted from her seat and out the door.

The hall was lit with several oil lamps in front of tiny mirrors to allow for more lighting. Margaret stopped walking for a moment and listened intently for some sound of Mr. Ivison's whereabouts. A creak behind her told her that fact well enough. She turned around with folded arms and an enquiring look on her face. "Were you looking for me, then?" Mr. Ivison asked of her.

"You neither agreed nor disagreed to my terms, Mr. Ivison. I only wished to know your answer for, as you know, it will impact my accepting or declining of _your_ terms," Margaret informed him in a business-like manner.

"I never knew you were the negotiating type," he mused aloud.

"You hardly know me, Mr. Ivison, so keep your wig on," Margaret drawled. At the man's laugh, she couldn't help but half-grin.

"But how is it that I feel like I know you well enough already?"

"That is hardly the point, Sir," she interrupted. "Tell me: yes or no?"

He didn't think at all. "No."

Before she could stomp away, he grabbed her arm. "Now you must answer my question."

"Need you ask? You know my response already." She detached herself from his grasp with some effort. "You're insufferable!"

"And you, Miss Dashwood," he told her, "confound me. I can't figure out if you're charming or devious."

"Well I know what you are—you're a tease boots!"

Mr. Ivison chuckled in enchantment. "What a goose you are, Miss Dashwood. Hmm, you're answer is no, then." He bowed deeply before her, but as he straightened himself up to smile into her cloud of fury, he saw that she was gone. He wandered back into the parlor to find she'd taken a seat by the bridge table. He situated himself opposite her and stared until she became fidgety.

"For Heaven's sake, Madge," Marianne huffed, "would you stop that? I can hardly concentrate, and if you keep up your fidgeting Brandon and I shall lose this set."

"I can't do anything right, can I?" Margaret exclaimed in offense. "I think I'll go sit with Elinor and not bother anyone, shall I?" She dragged her feet to the fire and stared holes into Elinor's embroidery. Edward chuckled to himself.

* * *

The next day, Margaret stole over to town to meet with her friends at the tea shop at their usual table. She wore her light muslin morning dress of primrose hue, setting off her new bonnet quite pleasantly. A sash of white shot with a similar yellow-colored thread was tied dashingly at her waist.

Lydia was recounting her run-in with Mr. Fisher. She'd been coming out of the book shop at a neck-breaking pace and had run full into the man. "I made such a cake of myself," she cried, holding her face with mortification as she recalled the exact words she'd given him. "I accused him, bold as brass was I, of being in his cups. I hadn't registered the fact that I'd run into Mr. Fisher until I got a good look at his handsome face. Of all the bacon-brained things to say!" Lydia dabbed at her watery eyes once more.

Margaret was amused. "At least you spoke with him."

"Just the thing I was thinking," Diana agreed with her friend. "He will recognize you anywhere now."

Lydia's eyes widened in fear. "That is not a good thing, friends. He shall forever think of me in a manner unromantic. I'd planned to faint in his path strategically, and he'd have to fall in love with me then. But now all is in ruins!"

Diana patted the aggrieved woman's hand comfortingly. "Would you like your bonnet early? It would cheer you up, I am sure."

Lydia shook her head morosely. "No gift will lighten this terrible cloud of humiliation from my back." She took a tart and took sad, tired nibbles out of it. Margaret imagined she could not taste the gooseberries at all.

"Speaking of humiliation," Margaret brought up as a distraction. "I had a run-in of my own kind."

"Mr. Ivison!" Diana exclaimed in anticipation, and then covered her mouth with her hands. She hadn't meant to say that so loudly. Lydia's eyes stopped leaking as she regarded Margaret.

"He wished to truce with me," Margaret began, "but he must be the most stubborn person in the county. I could not get him to agree to anything! And my terms were so accommodating, too. I said I'd buy him a new fishing pole."

Diana rolled her eyes over the rim of her teacup. "You just have to ask that he forget everything you've done to him, and voila!—true peace."

Margaret sighed impatiently. "I've done to him nothing that he didn't do to me."

"See, that is the root of your misunderstanding," Lydia said suddenly, her tears all but forgotten. "_You_ are the most stubborn person that I know. If the both of you are of such dispositions, then it will be impossible to reconcile and set aside your differences. Be the stronger one, Madge, and admit to everything and have done with it all."

"I cannot believe you think I'm intractable, Lydia." Margaret turned to Diana. "Are you of the same mind?"

Diana shrugged her shoulders. "I suppose I am."

"What friends I have!" Margaret cried out, tossing her own tart onto her plate in dismay.

"No, no—hear me out. It is not a bad thing to refuse to budge; in fact, I find it admirable and brave. I cave into pressure, but you do not. In this case, however, it would be advisable to opt for a truce and stop the childish pranking and bickering."

"It would be humiliating to prostrate myself before that man."

Lydia shook her head. "There's no need for that."

"Oh, I know," Margaret said. "Perhaps I will. Yes. The next time I see him I will march right up to him, tell him how deeply sorry I am and could we start over afresh once more? That sounds about right."

Diana, whose eyes had strayed beyond the window to those walking on the street below, sat up with a start. "Here's your chance, Madge."

Margaret choked on her tea. "When I said that, I meant when I next run into him."

"It's your lucky day," Lydia observed, "for he's heading right for this establishment."

"No!" Margaret peeked through the window, saw that Mr. Ivison was indeed approaching the tea shop, and ducked behind the flower arrangement in the center of the table. He didn't even look into the shop; he hurried past, not even entering the building. Margaret nearly fainted with relief. There was no way she was prepared to grovel at the man.

"It _is_ my lucky day," she announced happily to her two friends, who shared exasperated looks with each other.


	6. Chapter 6

_Margaret was unsure if she had to take his hand or not. It was placed before her in an urgent jerk, his eyes imploring her to comply. The sand beneath their feet was hot around their ankles. The backdrop of dunes and a cloudless yet white-washed sky ceilinged their tiny forms. Mr. Fisher, with his secretary standing at his elbow with head bowed, was beginning to become impatient. _

"_The storm will be here any moment, Miss Dashwood!" he cried, forcefully taking her by the hand and pulling her towards his camel. The mangy beast looked placidly at them as they ran over to perch on its hump. Mr. Fisher dug his heels into its sides, but the camel continued to stare at the approaching sand cloud with curiosity. _

"_I should have worn my dance slippers!" Margaret shouted into Mr. Fisher's ear as the sand absorbed them in a gritty hiss of wind, knocking them flat into the ground and filling their mouths with crunchy granules. She wasn't sure, but the camel looked like it was dancing in the gusts of wind as if it were enjoying the brutal sting of the storm. _

"_I told you marrying an adventurer would get you into a scrape," Elinor observed with apparent glee into her sister's ear. The secretary was gone. Margaret could just make out her eldest sister's form in the blur the landscape had become. "And of all the times to not be wearing your bonnet!"_

"_But I have it…" Margaret told her, feeling atop her head only to find it bare. The sand on her scalp was making her head itch. "This isn't any fault of his, you know. 'Tis nature that brought this storm on us."_

"_Go ahead and think what you will, but if you are not home in time for your French lessons I shall tell our mother about your tree-climbing exploits," Elinor threatened her, suddenly procuring a book from the billows of sand and waving it in Margaret's face._

"_But I haven't climbed a tree in three days! It's not fair!" Margaret cried, finding herself unable to cry in the dry climate. Her sister disappeared._

_Once the storm settled down, Margaret found she was alone. Mr. Fisher had been buried under feet of sand, the camel had trotted up and over a dune, and she was wearing her dancing slippers once more. She could just make out a shimmery figure on the horizon. Margaret scrambled over the sand, hoping they'd have some water on their person, but she was gravely disappointed. The mirage-d face melted into Mr. Ivison's, smiling at her in a strange fashion. "You shouldn't think about me so much," he advised her._

_She stopped walking towards him. "But—but I haven't been!"_

"_Why are you holding onto me so tightly then?" he asked softly, fingers reaching up to hold her close to him._

"_I don't know," she replied, looking carefully at him. "What did you do with Mr. Fisher?"_

"_What else would I do but eat him." Mr. Ivison told her matter-of-factly. "He tasted like—."_

Margaret opened her eyes. The portrait of her father rematerialized as she straightened her spine in a mouth-wide yawn that curled her down to her toes. The tiny clock on the mantelpiece was shadowed by the arrival of dusk, and the smell of supper was faint. Cook must have gone home already, and Mother was no doubt in bed due to a headache.

The day had been a boring one, having started with lessons in French, the near run-in with Mr. Ivison, and then weeding in the garden beside her mother. The two of them had relieved half of the vegetable patch of the dandelions before they felt ready to drop senseless with thirst and exhaustion. Margaret remembered coming in, laying down on the couch and then nothing. Somehow she had moved to the floor, arms tucked into her chest and hair twined around her neck. Margaret sat up and straightened her hair with sleep-weak fingers. She helped herself up off the floor by half-climbing up the couch's arm, and when she was standing she stumbled across the room and into the kitchen.

Cook's face turned up from the pot on the fire. "Have a lovely sleep, did you, Miss?"

"I'm not entirely sure," Margaret murmured, remembering her dream in a blurry, just-awakened fashion.

"I'm cookin' up some of the venison from Colonel Brandon's kitchen. His cook was kind enough to gift me a piece of it." The woman grinned appreciatively at the aroma arising from her brewing pot. "Why don't you sit yerself down, and I'll fetch you some cider, Miss?"

Margaret obeyed, slipping into a chair and waiting for Cook to come back. When the woman had served her the venison and cider, Margaret minced at it with her fork. "Ye don't like the food?"

"Oh, goodness, no!" exclaimed Margaret, taking a large serving onto her utensil and swallowing it nearly whole. She held back her grimace; it felt like she was eating thistles. "I fear I have no taste for anything right now. I apologize."

"I knew it had nothin' to do with my food," Cook mentioned. "You've got troubles, don't you?"

Margaret sat up from her slump. "It's not like I did anything wrong, you see. I was only paying him back for stealing my bonnet. It was only fair that he got what he deserved."

"Who're we talkin' about here?" the older woman asked, setting herself down and taking Margaret's portion of food. She smacked down some venison and potatoes with a gulp of cider.

"Mr. Ivison, of course," was the reply.

"Ah, the young man who was holdin' your drawers that one time." Cook winked slyly.

There was the expected blushing. "He claims it was a prank and therefore equal to his taking of my bonnet. Would you agree?"

"Of course, Miss—a tit for tat. It's only fair that he asks for forgiveness on both sides o' the quarrel."

Margaret shook her head. "But we really aren't quibbling."

"Then what're you doin', Miss? Flirtin'?" There was that wicked wink again.

"Indeed we are not! I would have you know that Mr. Ivison and I are mere acquaintances and—and we _do not flirt_!"

"I am sorry for rilin' you, Miss, but you did ask my advice and there you have it. Settle this and get yourself married before you kill each other." The cook grinned at Margaret's consternated expression. The girl took a swig of the cider before leaving without saying another word.

* * *

"I don't see why you are so angry about it, Madge," Diana remarked as they strolled down the street the next morning.

"I must admit that I cared very little about it until after the fact. Sure, his teasing was annoying but I believe I enjoyed it. Now, looking back, I am irked that it even happened," Margaret replied, swinging her reticule at her side. "He is a mere boy, and I will only apologize to a man."

"What I want to know is what he was going to ask you before you so rudely—pardon me—interrupted him," Lydia said, biting into the chocolate biscuit she'd just purchased from the pastry shop they'd visited.

"Clearly it had nothing to do with the truce he was proposing," Diana agreed.

Margaret faked a yawn. "All this talk of Mr. Ivison is boring me, ladies. I think I'll lay down for a nap."

Lydia, easily led off subject, clapped her hands. "You would never guess what Mr. Fisher did to me in my dream last night."

"He kissed you until you fainted," Diana hazarded in a guess.

"_He_ fainted after _you_ kissed him," Margaret countered, grinning.

Lydia vehemently shook her head. "Neither."

"Well goodness me, this is new! Tell us everything," Margaret eagerly demanded.

"He proposed!" Lydia shrieked, eyes flush with happiness, but then her face dimmed its brightness and her brow wrinkled with confusion. "But I refused him and he proceeded to serenade me. I laughed at him and upturned a bowl of soup over his head, and then he started to cry."

"That's so sad," whispered Diana, grabbing her friend's arm in a gesture of comfort.

"Why would you refuse his offer?" Margaret wondered aloud. "Is there any meaning in it all?"

"I don't think so, my love," Diana replied, turning to Lydia, "for you would never do such a thing to Mr. Fisher."

They entered the center of town where a sprawling park meandered by means of paths for the inhabitants of the area to see and be seen. A high-perch phaeton was flying down one of the larger paths with the giggling driver's laughter trailing in its wake. Lydia's lip turned up in a sneer as she observed her arch-nemesis. "She could die riding break-neck like that through town."

"Good morning," a soft whisper emanated towards them. They turned around to find Annis, the scarcer of their friends, standing nearby.

"Where have you been?" Diana cried, running to greet the quiet girl with a kiss on the cheek.

"I've been sick with a head-cold these few days," Annis replied. "I am sorry to have worried you, but I meant not offense by refusing to accept your calls when you three came by."

"You look like death visited and left something behind," Margaret observed, taking in the girl's wane appearance and haunted eyes. She greeted her with her own cheek-kiss and was met with soft laughter.

"The things you say, Madge," Diana said, rolling her eyes. "You can be so tactless sometimes."

"Sometimes? I'm not reaching my quota then." Lydia giggled.

"What are you girls planning for the day?" Annis asked them as they began to walk once more.

"We visited the patisserie already and have yet to stop in at the tea shop," Diana informed her. "Did you wish to drop in to the bookstore?"

"Truth be told, I am sick of novels these days. That's all I've been doing—sleeping and reading, eating and reading. Reading! I've had enough of it and am ready for a grand adventure!" Annis proclaimed. Her speech was interrupted with a rattling cough. "No mountains, though, for I fear I am not quite healed yet."

"We could visit Mrs. Jennings," Margaret told them. "She's been complaining we haven't been to see her for quite some time."

"No matter our feelings upon the woman, it is our duty to call upon her," Diana decided for them all. "How good of you to remind us of our obligations, Madge."

"Must we visit that vulgar woman?" Lydia complained in spite of the looks her friends gave her. "I wish we didn't have to visit every wealthy person in these parts, for not all of them are genteel."

"My mother would heartily agree with your sentiments if she heard them, Lydia," Margaret said. "No matter the winkling and uncomfortable questions, I still like her."

"You would," Annis commented, smiling. "Shall I procure us a carriage? I came down in Father's in the hopes that I would run into you all."

After sending a boy to fetch her driver and carriage, Annis and the girls waited outside of the millinery, where they gazed appreciatively at the newest trimmings on display. Margaret and Lydia guiltily kept away, hoping the owner of the shop wouldn't see them lurking outside of her business. Their last visit had been anything but pleasant. Lydia still held a grudge. "I can't believe she would throw us out!"

"We did knock over her stands and cause disruption to her customers," Margaret reminded her.

Lydia sniffed and turned her nose up. "Still. I shall never step in this shop again. In fact, I'm sure Mr. Goddard would appreciate my patronage at his establishment."

"He is a touch more expensive than here," Margaret said, "but his bonnets are of better quality."

"You could say they're the closest hats can be to being Parisian." They both nodded.

"Have you ever seen the likes of those flowers?" Diana asked Annis before they were approached by the carriage on the street.

"They are very vivid, to be sure, but they are too exotic for my taste," Annis replied before stepping into her father's open carriage. The others piled in after her and sat back into the cushioned seats. Annis gestured elegantly with her hand and the driver set the horses forward. Margaret felt a stab of envy in her chest as she observed the easy manner of the wealthiest of her friends. Annis, rich as she was, felt no need to seek marriage. She often said it would come to her if it was what was meant to be. If not, then she'd still have a comfortable life with her inheritance and family.

As they passed down the street, they approached a group of young men. Mr. Fisher was among them and as he spotted the carriage he tipped his hat in their direction. "Good morning, Lady Humphrey!" he called out.

Annis, the lady in question, nodded in his direction but said naught else. Lydia, observing the spectacle, quietly seethed in the confines of her wide bonnet. The young woman knew Annis did not seek out the heart of her Adonis, but seeing him genuflect in another's direction made her heart squeeze painfully. She tried dearly not to resent her friend, but it was very difficult. She turned her anger to the she-creature that was Mr. Fisher's shadow these days; now _there_ was something worth being embittered about!

* * *

Sir John met them at the door before his butler could even scurry to answer. "What a lovely surprise, ladies!" he cried as he showed them in with a large grin. "My mother will be very pleased to receive you. She's quite popular today."

"Are we here at a bad time?" Diana asked him, looking worried, as she took in the number of carriages already at the estate.

"We could come back later," Annis suggested.

Sir John would not have it. "You will be a welcome addition—I am sure of it!" He herded them into the parlor room that was serving as the day's visiting center. The girls walked into the room behind the man, and all Margaret had to do was see a shock of red hair and before she wished herself out of there. How unfortunate that it had been _her_ idea to call upon Barton Park!

"Is Lady Middleton not in today?" Margaret asked, hoping to stall.

"She's out calling on people herself," Sir John replied, coming to a stop before his mother-in-law. "I have brought you some more visitors, Mother."

"Well if it isn't Miss Dashwood and her gaggle of her friends!" Mrs. Jennings exclaimed, taking the hands of each girl and kissing them on their cheeks. "What a pleasant day it is for stopping by, for the sun is out and the lemonade's been made and there are men aplenty."

Mr. Ivison, his back to the room, was standing with a few gentlemen who were talking about the latest boxing match between Lord Farriday and Mr. Applewood. Upon hearing Mrs. Jennings, he could not help but look behind him. He saw Margaret and her friends sit down near the hostess who was serving them some lemonade. The room was indeed full of people, and Mr. Ivison wondered if there was a reason for it.

Margaret was keenly away of the gentleman's stare, and she studiously ignored it as she sipped her lemonade. "We cannot stay for long," Annis informed their hostess, "for I must return my father's carriage in a half hour."

"That's plenty of time for you, Lady Humphrey," Mrs. Jennings assured her. "I heard you were unwell. You must be feeling much better now, despite your pale face and tired eyes." Lydia's mouth twitched at the observation, and Diana averted her eyes.

Annis smiled good-naturedly. "I am improving in health day by day, Mrs. Jennings. It is so kind of you to inquire after me."

"We women must stick together, must we not?" the older lady laughed. "Speaking of large gatherings, we haven't had an Assembly in weeks. We ought to throw one together."

"Oh yes!" Lydia chimed in. "I do love to dance."

"And with whom I can guess," Mrs. Jennings said, winking. "Starts with an F, eh?"

Seeing the girl's blush, the woman nodded. "I am good at winkling things out of people, and I will have the name out of you yet. I've done it before, haven't I, Madge?"

Margaret nodded impishly in the direction of her uncomfortable friend. "Elinor can attest to your skills easily enough."

Having passed the time merrily and in astonishment at the hostess's jokes, the ladies made their farewells without having conversed much with the other visitors. "Shall we take you home first, Margaret?" Annis asked as they walked out of the door and onto the cobbled drive.

"I shall walk, if you don't mind," Margaret replied.

"It would be no trouble," Annis told her as she stepped up into the contraption.

Margaret shook her head. "It's much too out of your way. I will see you in church next, Annis."

Once the carriage was gone, she started down the road and was not half a footstep gone before she heard someone call her name. She looked back to find that Mr. Ivison was exiting the house. He waved at her and she waited for him to reach her. "I thank you for being patient with me, Miss Dashwood," he said as he reached her side. She immediately started walking, every now and then glancing at his swinging left hand as it appeared in her side vision.

"Did you wish to say something to me, Mr. Ivison?" she finally asked him. They approached a curve in the road.

"I was wondering if you had thought upon the, uh, terms I offered," he said, rubbing his neck and looking casually up at the trees towering over them.

"I did think, but not for very long," Margaret informed him. "I do not intend to accept any of your terms."

"Why can't we both just forget about everything? Watch that branch there," he warned her. "We could wipe the slate clean—start afresh."

"Thank you," she said, side-stepping the tree limb. "But what would wiping entail? Admittance on each party's side of wrong doing? Reparations?"

Mr. Ivison snorted. "The only injured party is mine. You broke my fishing pole, and you still are in possession of your ratty bonnet. What more can you ask for?"

"You ought to buy me a new bonnet," she demanded, smiling. "All would be forgiven then." She swatted at an errant branch that reached for her face.

"And the pole?" he carefully asked.

"Replaced."

He thought for but a moment. Would she want flowers on the brim? What color ribbon would bring the color of her eyes out more? "Done." He held out his hand, but Margaret looked dubiously at it.

"Will you promise to never steal my bonnet again?"

"I cannot make any promises," he told her. "They are so tempting."

"Then you'll have to purchase one for me that you know you would not take back from me."

"Do you have any preferences in mind?"

Margaret felt shy all of the sudden as he regarded her. "Whatever you think will suit," she stuttered. She meant to stride forward, but a large portion of the road ahead was muddied and puddle-d over.

"Damned rain," Mr. Ivison muttered.

Margaret twisted her reticule with her fingers. "We'll walk around then." She attempted to navigate the edge of the road, but her foot slipped into the mud and she cried out in dismay. "I should not have borrowed Elinor's shoes!" She went to the grass and wiped her foot into the clovers.

"I have a suggestion to make, Miss Dashwood," Mr. Ivison announced, approaching her. "I could go to fetch a carriage from Barton Park, as we are not too far gone from them, or I could just carry you across. I'm wearing my riding boots anyway."

Startled, the young lady looked up at him. She nodded. He walked over and, as Margaret kept her eyes on his face, he bent over, one hand around her waist and another taking her behind the knees. With one easy heft, Mr. Ivison was carrying her. As he started to walk her hands flew up to grasp his neck. He was so warm.

"Don't squirm too much—wouldn't want to drop you," he laughed.

Margaret swallowed uneasily. "If you drop me, you are replacing Elinor's shoes and my bonnet."

"Isn't one enough for you?" he exclaimed, stepping over the last of the puddles. He let go of her knees, and she placed her feet on the dry road carefully.

"Thank you, Mr. Ivison," she replied. He was taller than she first thought him to be, and there was a flock of freckles on his cheeks.

"Why are you holding onto me so tightly?" he asked softly, fingers reaching up to hold her close to him.

"I don't know," she replied, surprised to find she hadn't quite let go of him. She carefully looked at him. "What did you do with Mr. Fisher?" Immediately she dropped her hold of him to clasp her hands to her mouth in shock. Had she really just said that?


	7. Chapter 7

**I would like to thank everyone for their support by reading this tale, and I would like to give a shout out to _uncontrollableranter_. Thanks for the lovely rant, and this chappy is officially dedicated to you. Here's your drug.**

Mr. Ivison stood before his boots. He meant to go for a walk before services, perhaps with the intent to run into Miss Dashwood—but he wasn't sure. His uncertainty laid with the fact that their last encounter had ended in a most disappointing manner.

_Somehow, after following the young woman and helping her across that fated puddle, they had ended up in each other's arms. He bent his head in an attempt to fulfill the moment's need for a kiss, but it never happened._

_While staring at Miss Dashwood's lips, he heard her ask him about Mr. Fisher. The moment ruined, Mr. Ivison let go of her and tried to cool his unexpected surge of jealousy towards the man. She refused to explain herself, and Mr. Ivison was left to conclude that she held a tendre for the man._

_At least he became aware of the fact before he made love to her in so public a place. Miss Dashwood made some paltry excuse, left him to fend with his injured feelings, and was gone. He had meant to request a spot on her dance card for the Assembly, but it he had lost his chance._

His fists curled in remembrance of Mr. Fisher just two days back. The man had nearly prostrated himself before Elizabeth Fairchild when she smiled at him. The young woman was the goddess of the county, with golden eyes and soft brown hair. Her attributes did not end there for she was in possession of the finest pair of horses in town. Grown men got weak at the knees seeing her driving her phaeton across the green, and the fact that it was high-perch was even more tantalizing.

Mr. Ivison thought bitterly over Miss Dashwood's preference for the unattainable man. Over the course of their encounters, Mr. Ivison was sure she found _him_ admirable. Little squabbles aside, he could not help but observe the tell-tale blushing each time he smiled at her or drew close to her side. What he liked that set her apart from other women was the she wasn't the swooning type. Sure, he called her a wet goose, but she could climb trees!

The first glimpse he caught of her had been charming. She'd plastered herself to that tree branch as if she thought she could camouflage into the bark. He was unable to resist the temptation to tease her, and so he did.

The moment he arrived at Sir John's afternoon gathering he spotted her. Well, first he saw the bonnet, then the eyes, and finally their flash of recognition. Not wanting to embarrass her, he pretended to not know her. Of course, that was hard to do when she so obviously did not look at him. She knew him!

And so, he once more contemplated his boots, readjusted his cravat, and shoved his hat atop his rumpled hair. The boots on his feet, he trudged out of the guest bedroom and headed for the kitchen. He stole an apple pastry and as soon as he was outside he began to snarf it down.

"Too impatient to wait for after church, Mr. Ivison?" came the voice of Delaford's mistress, Marianne, who was kneeling in a vegetable patch up to her elbows in soil. She assessed him with her steady gaze.

"I don't know what to say," he admitted, his cheeks flushing. "I was going for a walk and wished for something to eat as I went."

"Do you enjoy the countryside?" she asked him, arms folded.

He said, "Very much! The air is easier to breathe without the awful stench of the London streets."

"Do you miss your mother?"

He looked quizzically at her. "I do, but—."

"You wonder why I am interrogating you so." Marianne stood and walked over to where he stood. "I wish to know you better, seeing as you are so close to Brandon. I except you will visit often, so I would like for us to become friends. I hope you do not mind." She looked him up and down so quickly he almost did not notice.

He felt a sudden rush of confusion. He swallowed. "Of course not. It would be an honor, Madame." He even bowed.

"Oh please!" she laughed. "I'm not what you would call a matron, and I'm certainly not a Madame."

Brandon popped his head through the door, saw his wife and guest, and practically ran over to them. Marianne, alarmed, took his arm. "Is everything well?"

He took a moment to catch his breath. "I received a letter from Eliza. She asks if she might visit us again."

Marianne's face stilled for but a moment before she smiled. She looked over at Mr. Ivison. "If you would not mind, I must speak with my husband. Do have a nice walk." She led them both back into the house, chattering gaily and leaning her head upon her spouse's shoulder.

Mr. Ivison swallowed the rest of his pastry and made his way down the long drive. Once he passed through a copse of tall trees, he found the road and was well on his way to the church before he once again turned his thoughts to Miss Dashwood. He remembered his promise about the bonnet, so he contemplated what color would best go with her complexion.

Lydia hugged herself as she stood with her friends in the churchyard. "I have never been held so by a gentleman. What did it feel like?"

Margaret's eyes widened. "I don't know! Nice?" She shrugged.

Diana regarded her friend with a skeptical eye. "There is no need to pester our dear friend, for the answer is written clear as day upon her countenance. She thoroughly enjoyed it." Lydia giggled.

"Are you trying to shame me?" she asked of her friends, turning red up to her hairline.

Annis patted her hand in a kind manner. "They delight in tormenting you, Madge. I am curious, though. If you delighted in his presence, then why did you run from him?"

"I have asked myself that every minute since then." Margaret's face turned forlorn, and she placed her fingers upon her temples. "My head begins to ache. I must stop thinking."

"You cannot," Lydia broke in, eagerly. "He is on your mind night and day, and the sight of him tears you in two." She sighed, thinking obsessively about her own gentleman.

"At least I talk to him," Margaret snorted.

Lydia narrowed her eyes. "If Mr. Fisher dared to make love to me, I would not protest—you can be sure of that."

"Do not say that around my mother," Diana warned her, "because if she heard you I would not have any friends to talk to. She really thinks—."

"I _know_ what your mother thinks of us, Diana. We are not Quality Company for an ambassador's daughter," Lydia told her, practically bristling.

"It is not that at all!" Diana exclaimed, shocked at her friend's sudden change in temper.

"Of course, Annis is exempt," Lydia muttered, fingering the ties of her bonnet. She did not mention that social rank cut deepest when it came to her. Though not a low-born woman, she felt the gulf when it came to her and Mr. Fisher and that irksome Elizabeth Fairchild. To her, it was easy to see the outcome: Mr. Fisher would affiance himself to the wealthier and titled of the two ladies.

"Forgive me," Margaret whispered to Lydia when Diana turned her attention to Annis's newest shawl.

"There is no need," Lydia replied just as quietly. "If I am ever to ensnare Mr. Fisher, I must do it my own way—even if it means I must speak hardly a word to him."

Margaret laughed. "If I am ever to do so with Mr. Ivison, I must run away as often as I can!"

Lydia looked askance at her. "You have feelings for him, then?"

"I am not sure what it is, but I _do_ regret not kissing him." She flushed and looked down at her hands.

"You sly thing you," Lydia teased her, smiling.

The church bells began to toll, announcing the beginning of services. The group of women followed the rest of the parishioners through the wide doors and into the cool building. Edward was greeting everyone as they walked in and found their spots on the uncomfortable pews. Elinor stood at his shoulder, proud to be espoused to such a kind man. Margaret covertly looked around her as she sat down in the family pew at the front. He wasn't there yet.

Edward began the service with a large grin, and as soon as he began to speak, Margaret's attentions wondered. Her brother-in-law was not a poor speaker; his poetry reading had greatly improved; but nothing could compete with Mr. Ivison at that moment. Of course he was the most irritating gentleman she had ever met, but the moment he sat down beside her in the pew he was anything but that.

Though Mr. Ivison received frowns from Mrs. Dashwood and several of the other parishioners, he was determined to occupy the space beside Miss Dashwood. Sitting down, he saw the young lady look sideways at him, trying to be covert. He raised his eyebrows in delight and sighed. She glanced at him once more.

He dared not turn his head, for if he did he would surely laugh. Miss Dashwood was trying to maintain her composure, and Mr. Ivison wasn't sure why. Was she so affected by him? What of Mr. Fisher? During the hymnals he glanced across the aisle to find that the very man was glaring at him! Had he made a mistake in sitting on the end of the pew? Good. He moved his head so that the other man could not get so good a view of Miss Dashwood.

"Mr. Ivison," whispered Miss Dashwood.

He looked over at her, startled. "Yes?"

She delicately cleared her throat. "You are sitting too close to me."

"Am I?" he replied, acting surprised. "Forgive me, but there is hardly any room to move, let alone to breathe."

"You cannot even move a—ouch!" Miss Dashwood glared at her sister who had leaned over their mother's lap to pinch her arm.

Elinor silenced them, "Shh." She immediately turned her gaze upon her husband once more.

Mr. Ivison observed his pew mate's annoyed countenance. Even with the angry twist of her mouth and the squint to her eyes, Miss Dashwood was a fine sight to see. Perhaps she was not a goddess like Miss Fairchild, but she was certainly more fun to be around. She was not a prickly thorn or a conniving flirt. She was, he realized with surprise, much like his mother. The thought frightened him, not because he disliked her, but because as a child he'd sworn to himself to marry someone just like her.

Miss Dashwood carefully poked his arm. "We are leaving now," she hissed.

He jumped up, straightening his jacket and cravat. Being at the front of the church meant that they were the last to exit through the doors; he took advantage of the mill of people to speak with Miss Dashwood. He grabbed the back of her shawl and gave it a tug. She looked over at him. "Good morning," he cheerfully said.

"Mr. Ivison," she wondered aloud, "you are in a delightful mood."

"What, no morning greeting for me? That's fine," he forgave her, winking.

The woman's jaw dropped, and she had to scurry to catch up with him. "Have you gone mad?"

He laughed. "If anyone is mad, it's Mr. Fisher. Just look at him glaring daggers at the world."

"Why would you concern yourself with Mr. Fisher?" he was asked.

"Oh, I would say we have a mutual interest between us, Miss Dashwood."

She looked suspiciously at him. "And what would that be?"

"If I told you, then it would no longer be a secret." He tapped his nose.

They reached the doors, shook Edward's hand, and stepped onto the drive. Mrs. Dashwood bid her daughters farewell and went back inside to wait for the Ferrars to depart. She would take advantage of their carriage for her knees were not what they used to be. "Make sure you set the berries out into the sun, Margaret," the older woman said, kissing her daughter's forehead. "I will be by soon."

"Goodbye, Mr. Ivison," Miss Dashwood told him, curtsying indifferently to him. He had no choice but to follow her. There was that unanswered, uneasy feeling in his gut that things between them were not yet solved. Of course, she was making no attempts to remedy the situation, but he found himself helpless. He had to know what Mr. Fisher meant to her.

"Do you mean to follow me?" Margaret asked Mr. Ivison. The unspoken _again_ flitted obviously in the air between them.

"Naturally," he replied. "I can't help but feel we've done this before." He offered his arm and she took it.

"It does feel familiar," she said, "but—."

"But there's no rain puddle this time," he observed in an offhand manner.

"No, there is not."

"Do I detect a hint of disappointment in your voice?" he asked, stopping her mid-sigh.

"No," she laughed, turning her face away from his searching gaze.

"Mayhap there is one up ahead," he mentioned.

"There is no need for one, Mr. Ivison." Margaret was exasperated. If he wanted to talk about her mishap, why wouldn't he just say it out loud? Instead, he hinted and said nothing outright.

"How will I carry you then?" he mused, tapping his chin with his free hand. "Over a fallen log? A rock?"

Margaret snatched her arm from his hold. "Why don't you just tell me what is bothering you, Mr. Ivison."

"What could make you think that I have a burning question to ask you? Nonsense."

"Do you _want_ me to hit you? You are so insufferable sometimes!"

"Why don't we wait until we are somewhere a little less public to discuss this," he suggested, keeping his distance from her.

"My mother will be home anytime. She would disapprove." Frantically, she tried to remember if she had cleared the parlor of the blankets and books.

"Cook could act as chaperone."

"It is Sunday, Mr. Ivison. This is her day off," Margaret informed him, "and I do not want to summon her just so she can watch over me."

"I will not take up much of your time, Miss Dashwood."

She narrowed her eyes. "As long as you don't tarry," she acquiesced.

They arrived at Barton Cottage after a strange walk down the road. Mr. Ivison commented on every bird he saw, and Margaret was sure he looked a little green around the gills. She went in ahead of him to check the parlor, and, after tossing the blankets into a cupboard, she invited him in. She sat near the window in order to watch the road, and he wisely sat far from her.

He cleared his throat. "I will begin with an observation I made this morning. I should like to know why I kept seeing Mr. Fisher glare at me through the service. Did I do something to upset him?"

Margaret blinked. "Are the two of you friends?"

"Oh, no, no," Mr. Ivison denied vehemently. "Are you?"

"Friends with him?" Margaret shook her head and discovered that she was still wearing her bonnet. She slipped it off. "I am merely acquainted with Mr. Fisher."

"Do you admire him?"

"Why do you wish to know?" she demanded, looking sharply at him from her perch near the window.

"I could say mere curiosity," Mr. Ivison began, "but that would be a lie. I can only imagine that you hold a tendre for him."

Margaret felt her jaw drop. She held a hand to her mouth to cover the laugh that threatened to spill from her. Mr. Ivison visibly squirmed at her reaction. "If you must know, I had a dream two nights ago. It was a silly dream, but you were both in it."

"You dreamt about me? Wait, you asked me what I had done to him…did something happen to him?"

Margaret giggled into her palms. "He was buried under many feet of sand."

"And what was he doing there?" he asked with a hesitant smile.

"There was," Margaret began, "a sand storm, and we lost track of each other. I forgot to wear my dancing slippers."

Puzzlement. "What of your bonnet?" he asked her.

"Nowhere to be found! And then you—." She looked away, clearing her throat. "It was a silly dream."

"Yes, yes," he told her, "but what part did I play? What did I do to him? Assassinate the poor sod?" He moved from his couch to hers and leaned back into the arm rest.

She decided to leave out the part where they embraced. "You ate him, Mr. Ivison, and, just before you could tell me what he tasted like, I woke up."

His brow furrowed. "I do not know the taste of a human."

"I should hope not," Margaret replied.

A finger scratching his ear, he told her, "Now that was not so difficult, was it? I don't see why you didn't tell me before, instead of making up an excuse about cutting up vegetables." Margaret flushed at the memory.

_She could feel his stare boring into the back of her head. She was sure he could see her blushing, too, but with her face turned away it was impossible. Still. Her gaze became fixated on the trees across the road._

_Mr. Ivison, silent at first, cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, but I don't know what you mean by that question."_

"_Do not mind it, Sir," she quietly replied, "there was no reason for it."_

"_Of course there was," he said, coming about to face her, "else you would not have asked it."_

_Margaret shook her head. "It just—forget I even brought it up with you."_

"_That will be a difficult task, but I shall endeavor to do as you ask. Shall we talk of other things?" He nodded in the direction of the road, began to walk, but stopped when he realized Margaret was rooted to the ground. _

"_I think it best if I go along by myself the rest of the way," she said, trying not to look at him. She could not help it though; she still felt his hold around her waist. She drew in a shuddering breath._

"_It is not much longer from here," he told her._

"_It is only that I must—erhm, cut vegetables. My mother wishes me to cut the vegetables for her." She realized how obvious her paltry excuse was, and she blushed for it. For some reason she was as embarrassed as she could be at the moment, and the only way to get rid of the feeling was to flee—no matter how stupid she made herself look, just as long as he was not staring at her like she was some sort of goose._

"_I see," was all the man said._

"_Thank you for helping me, Mr. Ivison," Margaret quickly said, "but I think I can find my way home alone now." And so she hurried away from him and did not look back._

"I was mortified. Vegetables were the first thing that came to mind," she muttered. She noticed a threadbare spot on her cushion and she shifted her dress to cover it.

Mr. Ivison threw his head back in a laugh. "I am glad that I make you think of greens."

"You are offended," she posited, raising an eyebrow.

"No, no," he demurred, "quite the opposite. As a matter of fact, I find you quite charming."

Despite the butterflies batting within her, she felt a surge of confidence at the knowledge that he found something about her that he admired. This sudden power of hers kept the usual trembling of her voice at bay. "Not, I am sure, as bewitching as the women in London," she casually replied, looking down at her hands.

"Indeed" was his answer. Margaret looked up at him in surprise. He half smiled. "No one can cast a spell over a man more effectively than a London lady. But you don't do that, do you? You do not faint strategically at a man's feet just because he is of wealth; you do not feign interest in someone just for the thrill of it; you're not like them at all." He leaned forward, drawing close to her.

"I am not a dishonest person, Mr. Ivison," she told him.

He looked carefully at her. "Would it be a lie, then, if I said you wished more than anything right now to kiss me?" Color flooded her cheeks. She opened her mouth to retort, but nothing came out. He slowly advanced across the remaining space on the couch to her side. As his face drew near, Margaret shut her eyes to the inevitable—and how sweet the sensation of his lips upon hers was! It was a brief kiss and seemed more like a tiny peck than anything else; but to a young woman who had never had the pleasure to be so courted it was beyond anything.

"Do you want me to leave?" he asked her afterwards, his breath drifting across her face, his lips just inches from hers.

"We barely know each other," she managed to say after drawing into her lungs what air she could.

"It has been close to two weeks since I first came to visit your brother-in-law."

"It seems like yesterday," she replied.

"Don't forget about the berries," he reminded her as he stood up. "I should leave before your mother arrives."

"I almost forgot," Margaret said. "Will you be at the Assembly?"

He bowed. "I intend to be. It would be an honor to dance with you, Marg—Miss Dashwood."

"If you mean the first dance, then I would be glad to accommodate you." She curtsied prettily.

Mr. Ivison was surprised when she took his arm and led him out of the house. While being led thus, he wondered aloud about Mr. Fisher. "If neither of you have tendres for each other, then why was he looking so ugly for?"

Margaret thought it over. "Possibly he was angry over something." Suddenly, she snickered. "I believe it may have had something to do with Lydia. She recently accused him of being in his cups. I don't think he took that very well."


End file.
